Story Of Assassins
by Reversalsun
Summary: What if La Squadra Di Esecuzione had been successful? What if they'd been able to steal Trish Una away from Buccellati's gang and pursue Passione's boss themselves? Follow the wayward band of assassins as they quest toward their freedom and revenge. Risotto Nero spearheads the movement as his friends rally behind him.
1. Sequestro

_I want this to be as non-confrontational as possible._

Risotto's words echoed in the blond's head. He could still hear the stress in his leader's voice. The fear. All of them were still reeling from their friends' death - even Risotto. He'd never show it though. Not in front of the rest of the team at least.

After Risotto had been scouted by Passione, Gelato and Sorbet were the first people assigned to his team. Prosciutto himself had been next. For both of them to be taken so suddenly, and in such a gruesome way.. Prosciutto bit down on his lip until the sharp taste of iron began to spread in his mouth. He couldn't dwell on that. He needed to stay alert. The man stared unblinking at the mirror that had been propped up in the back seat of the car. Should anything other than his friends fall out of that mirror, he would have to activate his Grateful Dead and storm into the building alone. And if his friends did appear, girl in tow, he'd need to stomp on the gas and get them all out of there as quickly as possible.

He went over the plan in his head. All of them had it memorized; they'd gone over it numerous times. Formaggio would find out where their enemies were hiding by hitching a ride when one of them inevitably came into town, then inform the others of their location. Check. He and Illuso would drive to their location, but hang back as not to draw attention. Illuso would enter a mirror and infiltrate wherever they were staying. Check. They'd done all that without a single problem.

The next part was what worried him: Formaggio and Illuso would be inside a house that was crawling with enemies. Enemies they knew nothing about. Enemies who's stands had the potential to destroy the whole operation.

Prosciutto sighed. He needed to shake off those thoughts. He regained his focus and continued over the plan.

When Formaggio found an opportune time, he'd use Little Feet to shrink the Boss's daughter. After that, he'd unshrink the mirror in his pocket and have Illuso pull them in.

If they could get that far they'd be nearly home free. Illuso would exit through the mirror in the backseat and they'd speed away. Their enemies wouldn't even know who they were. They needed that anonymity.

So Prosciutto waited.

* * *

The redhead watched giant heels click across the floor before stopping in front of the vanity.

"It's for your own good that we're here. There are definitely people after you. Just because we haven't run into them doesn't mean they don't exist." Formaggio recognized the voice that forced it's way past the tightly shut door. It belonged to a boy named Fugo. He'd been pestering the boss's daughter since Formaggio had arrived. He wasn't sure whether it was himself or the girl who was more annoyed.

"I'm fine. Go watch some other door. I don't need your help so give me some privacy!" the girl yelled back. Formaggio had already been listening to them argue for a solid ten minutes. While not a devout man, he was about ready to start praying for the conversation to end.

"Okay. Fine. Just be careful, you've got no idea what these people are capable of!" Fugo's exasperation was beginning to get the best of him. Formaggio smiled. Soon he'd be released from this hell.

"Yeah, and you don't either." With that final blow Fugo was defeated. A loud sigh could be heard beyond the door. Footsteps soon followed.

Perfect. All he had to do was wait until he was sure the boy was gone, then Little Feet could pounce at her ankle and-

Suddenly the shoes turned to face him. Formaggio froze, watching for any tiny movement that would indicate her next action. He hadn't been seen right? That would be impossible, this whole time she'd been looking into the mirror!

Trish lifted her knee onto the bed. The redhead's fears vanished.

 _Guess I didn't realize that all this even has me stressed.._

The girl had completely disappeared onto the bed. Formaggio knew that a clock was counting down. He had a limited amount of time before someone else disturbed his target's privacy. In that time he and Illuso had work to do. The assassin crept cautiously from under the bed. He needed to find a blanket edge, or even a mattress tag could work. Luckily for him, the bed wasn't quite neatly made. Near its foot, a blanket corner hung sloppily over the edge. Formaggio ducked back under the bed and sprinted toward it. With a running leap he was able to grab onto it. Years of using little feet had made him more than capable of navigating the world while tiny. He scaled the bed by propping his feet against the mattress and using the blanket like a rope.

It took him less than a minute to reach the top. Peeking over the edge he could see the girl lounging, her face obscured by a magazine. Formaggio crawled onto the blanket. He stayed on his hands and knees. This way the blanket's wrinkles could obscure her view of him if she happened to look in his direction. He crept forward. He was behind her shoe now. All he needed to do was get to bare skin, then Little Feet could strike.

Suddenly her legs began to shift. She pulled them closer to her body until they were crossed. Formaggio was left in the open. He pulled in a sharp breath. He needed to think. The redhead dove into a clump of fabric. It wouldn't hide him completely, but it was enough to work with. He laid on his stomach and pulled out his pocket knife. At this size it wouldn't cut anything fast. He knew that from experience. But he also knew how to work with this kind of situation.

Thread by thread. He plucked at the fabric and slowly cut his way into it. His eyes glanced at the girl. She was still preoccupied. In his panic he carelessly slid the knife across his thumb. He bit his tongue. Formaggio didn't dare yell out in pain. He balled up his hand. This wouldn't stop him. He'd been through worse.

Formaggio sliced at the fabric until the hole was big enough for him to wiggle through. He wiped the blood from his knife and closed it. His hand held splotches of red. He pressed it against the sheets, allowing himself a moment to bask in the safety of cover. The assassin couldn't enjoy it though. But it wasn't the usual "I know I'm still in danger" hang up. This feeling was something new. The cut on his hand reminded him of the package that had been delivered to their headquarters. The gift from their boss. Formaggio was an assassin. He'd seen some pretty gruesome and fucked up stuff in his time. But it was different when you knew the person. When it slowly dawned on you who those slabs of human belonged to. Stacking them together and seeing the horror on Sorbet's face. Realizing that the chopping had probably started at the ankles.

The redhead's chest felt tight. He didn't want to think about that. Not now at least. He filled his head with thoughts of strategy. Thoughts of his target. Anything to push away those images that haunted him. He crawled forward, army style. The less movements he made, the better. Earlier he'd seen where the blanket ended. He'd be able to prick her knee without even leaving the covers.

Closer. Closer.

The assassin would reach the edge soon. If he moved forward too quickly he ran the risk of exiting before realizing where he was. He stopped. At this size, with the amount of ground he'd covered, the end of the blanket should have been just a few inches in front of him. He summoned Little Feet. Sure enough, it was able to slither out of the covers. It knew its task. It raised its claw and swiftly slashed, barely even breaking the girl's skin. Like lightning she released the magazine and slapped at her knee, then inspected her hand. To her surprise, there was no residue of dead bug. Little Feet had already disappeared. She scanned the area. Even the tiniest movement would give formaggio away. She reached toward the covers but stopped short, opting to feel her wound instead.

"Now I've got to deal with a bug infested house too. Can't these idiots just rent a hotel room?" she growled. Luckily for Formaggio, the girl pulled her hand away and leaned back, perhaps finding that her magazine was a bit larger than she remembered.

Now he had to wait. The shrinking had already begun. It would take her a bit to realize what was happening. His only concern was what would happen when she did. Would she panic? There would be a short period of time where if she screamed it would still be loud enough to alert the others.

Formaggio slunk up to the edge of the blanket. He lifted just enough to peer out. She was fumbling with a page. The look on her face was familiar to him: sheer confusion. The girl hadn't realized what was happening. Her eyes slid from the magazine onto the rest of the room, searching for an explanation. Her hand fell back onto the pillow. It seemed almost endless. Despite her groping, she couldn't find it's magazine fell out of her hands - it was too large for her to handle now. Her jaw dropped. No words escaped it. It was Formaggio's lucky day. She was past that point now. Even if she screamed no one would hear her. She lifted her hands in front of her face. Her expression now showed disbelief. Fear. In just a few more seconds she'd be completely shrunken.

Formaggio dug in his pocket until he found the hand mirror he'd previously shrunken. He summoned his stand and tossed the item to it. There wasn't much left to do. If everything went well, he'd be out of the house in under a minute. He leap to his feet and lunged at her. Before she could even register his presence, he'd thrown an arm around her waist and was lifting her over his shoulder. Little Feet threw the mirror to the ground and reverted it back to its original size. It tapped on the glass with it's foot. The girl kicked Formaggio in the gut. But he was ready for such a response, his muscles already braced.

An eye appeared in the mirror. Upon spotting his partner, it was replaced by a hand. It reached through the mirror as if it was the surface of a pool. The hand scooped them up with practised ease and pulled them inside.

* * *

Formaggio sat on the edge of the bed. Little Feet had already returned him to his normal size. Illuso stood in front of him, screwing the cap onto a jar.

"You _did_ grab a lid with holes in it this time, right?" The redhead stretched his arms. Illuso shot him a dirty look.

"One time. It was one time that I used a normal lid. And you know what? No one important got hurt. So yes. This lid has holes." The man angled the lid toward his friend. The tilt knocked the girl inside off balance, causing her to stumble and fall against the glass wall.

"Dude! What the hell are you doing! Give me that!" Formaggio swiped the jar away from Illuso, taking care not to shift it in the process. "I would have taken your word for it! Look what you did! You've got to be more careful, this ones important." He slowly turned the jar upright again. Once back on her feet, the girl crossed her arms and crinkled her nose - an obvious objection to be treated like cargo.

The pair payed her no mind. On one hand, they had other things to worry about. On the other… Well, this was new. Kidnapping wasn't their job. Killing was. It was a lot easier to talk to someone you were about to murder then to a girl who you'd need to get information from later on.

"Sorry. You carry the jar. Let's get moving. We don't know what could happen when they realize she's missing. These people are stand users after all." He headed toward the door. Formaggio lifted himself to feet and followed. "I already know the layout of this place. I had a bit of time to look around. I saw the enemies too. There are six of them." The redhead nodded.

"We've got an advantage there at least. Nine to six. Easy." Both men fell silent. Formaggio gulped "Seven. Seven to six. Easy." Neither spoke as they navigated the building.

The girl's eyes searched the rooms rapidly. Where had everyone gone? Just minutes ago the dark haired man (Bruno?) had been sitting in the kitchen making coffee. Fugo wasn't nervously pacing in the hall around her door, or anywhere else. Where was the boy with golden hair? Had they abandoned her already? Had these men done something to them? Possibilities raced through her head. Yet nothing made sense. It was as if they'd all just dropped off the planet. Even when they got outside there was not a soul to be seen. The car Narancia had driven was still there.

"So Prosciuttos parked about a block from here. It's a short walk. We can cut through the vineyard." Illuso broke the silence. Formaggio continued to follow him into the plants.

Eventually they reached an empty car. The girl was confused. Hadn't they just mentioned another person? Formaggio opened the door and slid along the seat toward the mirror. Illuso ducked in after him, stand already out.

"Its a shame we couldn't get a larger mirror back here. This ones a bit skinny." The redhead grumbled.

"So you'll go through sideways. This is a car. We don't exactly have room for anything fancy." Illuso rolled his eyes as Man in the Mirror helped the other back into the real world.

The girl was speechless. One minute she'd been face to face with her reflection, the next she was facing the car's interior once more. She twisted around to see the mirror behind her. The other man was exiting it now. She was stunned. This was impossible. First, she'd shrunk to just a few inches tall, and now they were passing through a mirror?! She'd already attempted to pinch herself awake multiple times. But nothing worked. Things were only getting stranger.

"Thank goodness. Are you two ready to go?" Her eyes shot to the front seat. There was a man there now. Blond hair and a suit. She could see his eyes focus on her in the rearview mirror. "Good job." Without a moment of hesitation, the man started the car and sped away from the vineyard. The black haired man turned in his seat, watching the road behind them. Suddenly the redhead raised her jar to eye level.

"So this is the boss's daughter, huh?" The man was inspecting her.

She hated that. People talking as if she couldn't hear them. As if she wasn't there. There had been so much of that since her mother had died. At least the last group had had the decency to introduce themselves. She wanted to tell him off. To swear at him. Hit him. But she couldn't. Part of her didn't dare. All she could do was bite her lip and glare.

"She looks kinda angry, huh?" Formaggio chuckled.

"Shut up, this really isn't the time for that. What if I hit a bump when you were holding the jar like that?" The blond snapped. He parked the car on the side of the road and turned back toward the two men. "Give me the jar." Formaggio stalled for a moment, but eventually obliged. Prosciutto examined the girl carefully before unscrewing the cap and holding the jar so he could look down at her. After a period of silence he finally spoke up. "My name's Prosciutto. What's yours?"

The girl didn't want to reply. She had nothing to say to them. They were her captors. If she answered she'd be giving them exactly what they wanted. Information. She clamped her mouth shut and kept her eyes down.

"Alright, I see you don't want to talk. If you do feel like talking later, just get our attention." Prosciutto paused to clear his throat. "This is gonna be a bit of a drive, and standing in there the whole time might be a bit uncomfortable. If you work with us I'm willing to turn you back to normal and let you use the passenger seat." Formaggio tensed up. Was Prosciutto out of his mind?

The girl continued her silence. Prosciutto shrugged and began to replace the lid.

"Wait." She didn't know why she was speaking. Parts of her condemned the action. Commanded her to stop immediately. The blond pulled the lid away. "My Name's Trish." Prosciutto grinned.

"There we go. A good start."


	2. Stasi

Prosciutto sat opposite Trish on a green lawn chair that popped brightly against their dull surrounding. Their only light came from unadorned light bulbs scattered on the support beams of the ceiling. Stacks of boxes were wedged into corners and against walls around them. A single corner was left free for a washer and dryer. A few baskets and stray socks were strewn haphazardly on the floor. Earlier, Trish had run into one of the makeshift clotheslines when she'd been escorted down. The creaky wooden stairs had left her in darkness - until the blond had pulled a string and caused the first light to buzz to life. She was just happy she hadn't run into one of the wet shirts that, unbenounced to her at the time, were merely inches away.

The assassin's ankle was crossed over his knee as he stared at her. There was a palpable tension. His fingers twitched with an urge to grab a cigarette out of his pocket. It might lessen the stress for him, but he was held back by a gentlemanly respect for the lady he shared the room with. Her comfort wasn't their main concern, but things might be a hell of alot easier if she was in a moderately good mood. Trish was meeting his gaze. The look in her eye seemed courageous and unflinching, but Prosciutto noted that it could just as easily be indignance. Whichever it truly was, she was definitely far from cowering. He found it praiseworthy.

"So," he started slowly. Carefully. "Like I explained before, this can be really easy. We all want this to be easy. I'm sure you want this to be easy. But for this to be easy, you need to cooperate with us. Give us answers. Help us. That's all."

"And by that you mean helping you guys kill my father, right?" The line was delivered so quickly that Prosciutto nearly missed it completely. Trish's words were sharp and precise, so much so that he wondered if she'd been planning them.

"Well, yes." The blond sighed and looked down. "There's really no hiding that. It might be painful for you, but your father is a criminal. He's done horrible things to many people - and he's no friend of ours."

"Not like he's a friend of mine either.." Trish mumbled. Prosciutto's eyes shot back up.

"What did you just say?" The girl remained silent, but didn't look away from him. Her gaze was steady and unflinching. Daring. Prosciutto's eyebrow twitched. "I didn't hear you. You were a bit quiet. Repeat yourself."

"You all expect me to have answers for you," Trish started, "but I don't." The assassin frowned. "You think I can give you a name and you'll suddenly be able to find him?" She continued "Or I could just tell you where he's hiding right? Well I can't. I don't know anything about him. My mom searched for years and couldn't find him, yet you all think you can track him down in no time."

"Do you remember anything about him?" The blond's voice had grown more stern alongside Trish's defiance.

"Oh, of course I remember a person who didn't even know I existed until recently." She snarled. The assassin clenched his jaw as she spoke. He was glaring at her now. Her defiance had gone too far. Trish had passed the limit she was testing.

"That's enough." His words were a quiet rumble "You're not our guest. We're not obligated to be gracious," He sneered, standing up "or even nice. You had your chance to help us, but if you're going to act like this, then we might as well just tie you up and leave you down here until your father tries to send his high-ups after you. They'd make better information sources. Better yet, we could just off you as revenge." He was looking down at her. The terror Trish had felt earlier had returned. This was a reminder. A reminder that these people were criminals. Murderers.

She wasn't in control of this situation and never was. She never would be. She gulped. A heavy silence had fallen over them. The man was unwavering in his intimidation. He looked upon her with with a wretched cocktail of disgust, anger, and murderous intent.

"You can spend the night down here in this chair. Maybe that will help your attitude."

* * *

Ghiaccio crumpled the paper in his hand. Earlier Risotto had spoken to them. He'd explained that they'd be watching the hostage in shifts. None of them really had experience with keeping their target's around longer than maybe a day at most. They were assassins, not prison guards, after all.

Melone entered as Ghiaccio brooded against the wall. The blond's expression changed to a smug bemusement as he examined his friend.

"Let me guess, you're upset about this. You're thinking, 'Wow, this is so dumb. I'm not a babysitter!'" Melone increased the volume of the last line. Ghiaccio found the imitation less than humorous.

"I don't talk like that. Or sound like that. And you're wrong, that couldn't be further from what I'm actually thinking." His words were more growl than actual human speech. Melone quickly understood, his grin dropping. He shrugged before quickly moving out of the room. Ghiaccio's eyes followed him as he left. In truth, he was what currently upset the man. Melone was his closest friend. That was the truth. But he had some very clear tendencies that were worrying. They'd never really been a huge concern before- he could do whatever he wanted, Ghiaccio really couldn't care less. But surely something would go wrong if the blonde was involved in these 'shifts'.

Melone disliked women. Plain and simple. Ghiaccio wouldn't go so far to say he hated women, but there was a definite amount of general distaste and a startling disregard when it came to their safety. His stand alone was a huge tell. The blue haired man hypothesized that it might have sprouted from some childhood event, something so firmly rooted that it even shaped Baby Face. But Melone was fairly secretive about his past, so he could never be sure.

But why was he so concerned about that?

Ghiaccio knew only two things about their target. One, she was a wily and stubborn teenager. Two, she was the boss's daughter. He didn't really care about her as a person. He'd yet to even meet her. The reason must clearly be how much was at stake. She was their only lead, and she was a big one. If they had much of a real fighting chance, she was it.

And Melone's unpredictability could ruin that.

He found this type of variable excruciating and dangerous, especially in such a delicate situation. Did Risotto know? Had he even thought about why it might be a bad idea? Surely their leader had noticed Melone's behaviour somewhere in the years they'd been together. It wasn't likely for the Capo to miss things, it was more likely that he'd been quietly ignoring it.

But that couldn't be the right thing to do in this situation. It was too dangerous. People in general were prone to failing and making messes, but Ghiaccio had always had confidence in his boss. Risotto had never made a wrong decision in his eyes- and he wasn't about to let him break that streak. Yet.. He still wondered. Maybe Risotto was right in letting Melone take one of the guarding shifts. Maybe he was getting worked up over nothing. He was stressed. They all were.

The assassin turned and began walking down the headquarter's halls. There was a way to sort this out, but it wouldn't come to him. He turned a corner and past another closed door. In the past he could have looked there for advice. There was still a bed in that room. And a nightstand. A dresser. There were different pairs of clothes. Favorite books. But the residents were absent. No, not absent, gone. Ghiaccio moved further down the hall.

He stopped just down the hall in front of a large door. He didn't try the knob. Aside from bursting in being rude, he already knew it would be locked.

"It's Ghiaccio." The identification was accompanied by three knocks. In a moment the telltale sound of the lock sliding invited him in. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Papers were sprawled across the desk - some had overflowed onto the floor and had been left there. Any notion of the organization that usually filled the Capo's room had disappeared. Ghiaccio was surprised. He'd never seen this room anything less than clean. Risotto himself was resting his head on his fist. He was definitely putting on a facade - a weak one. It was plain to see that he was tired.

Risotto was doing his best to keep his eyes focused on the boy in front of him. Despite his efforts, his eyelids hung down slightly. Ghiaccio suddenly felt guilt rise up from his stomach like bile. By the looks of things, the Capo hadn't slept in days. His presence must be disturbing important work.

"I just wanted to talk to you about how we're supposed to be guarding the boss's daughter.." his voice was shaky- it even sounded odd to his own ears. He gulped before continuing his point. "I just don't think it's a good idea to.." He stopped for a moment to gauge how stupid his next sentence might sound. "It's not a good idea to let Melone be part of it. It's just not safe."

"I see." His words were accompanied by an iconic silence that all of La Squadra had grown to expect from their boss. But instead of finishing his thought, Risotto stayed quiet. Ghiaccio fidgeted.

"I just mean that-"

"No, I understand." The capo refocused on him. "I understand your concern. So what do you propose we do? Giving longer shifts, is an option. Or more shifts. But I doubt everyone would take kindly to that."

"I could take Melone's shifts." Ghiaccio blurted. "I mean, I'm the one who had a problem with it." He wasn't sure why he had offered to double his workload. Well, it was more like he didn't want to admit to himself that he'd gladly jump at any chance to impress Risotto. Plus, it was a solution.

"Alright. You're in charge of breaking the news to him." Risotto's eyes had already dropped back down to the papers in front of him. Ghiaccio nodded and exited the room. As he moved down the hall, he could hear the metal click of the lock sliding back into place. He could only hope that his boss would take a break soon. Maybe he'd mention these concerns to Prosciutto.

Speaking of whom, the boy passed the entry way just in time to watch the blonde flick away a cigarette behind him while crossing into the house.

"You should pick that up. You know everybody hates it when they find those lying around." Ghiaccio had stopped to address the other. Prosciutto looked up at him with contempt.

"Really not in the mood for this right now." He grunted, pushing past Ghiaccio.

"Aren't you supposed to be watching the boss's daughter for another half hour?" The man stopped mid step and turned his head back.

"Yeah. But I couldn't get anything out of her. She forgot her place and wanted to be rude to me, so I'm leaving her there for tonight."

"What if she tries to escape?"

"She's tied to a chair in a dark basement behind a tightly locked door. Even if by some miracle she was able to get out, she'd still have to navigate our whole base without being caught by anyone. I think we're safe. Besides, soon enough Melone will get over there and start his turn guarding." The blond's words turned into a huffy mumble as he moved further and further down the hall.

Ghiaccio checked the time. 9:38 PM. He still had time to find Melone. Better yet, he could just wait for him. He knew his job started soon. Ghiaccio could catch him just by sitting in front of the door.

* * *

Something bumped against his outstretched eyes shot open as he looked toward the door. Through the haze of sleep left in his vision, he could swear he saw the door move ever so slightly. Ghiaccio looked back to his leg. Had he simply brushed against the wall in his sleep, or had something hit him? His drowsiness quickly faded as his brain forced information together. He was supposed to be guarding the door. He must have fallen asleep at some point.

What he felt was likely an escape attempt.

He lept to his feet and grabbed the doorknob. His breath materialized as white smoke in front of pale lips. He threw the door open. The lights were still off, just as Prosciutto had left them. He stepped forward cautiously. White crystals formed at his fingertips. He descended further down the stairs, using the patch of light that spilled in from the doorway to check his immediate surroundings. Nothing so far. He reached up until he felt a string on the back of his hand.

He expected something to jump out at him the moment the light flashed on. Maybe she'd armed herself with a loose brick or board. But there was nothing. Just the same basement that had always been there. He looked behind him. Still nothing. The only thing that was different was the girl sitting in a chair near the back- well, she wasn't really sitting, as the chair was laying on it's side. She was more leaning against the ground. Maybe Prosciutto had purposely left her like that? This was the first time the assassin had actually been down here to see the girl.

He couldn't let his curiosity distract him though. There was still a chance that she was waiting for him to let his guard down. The ropes could be loose, she could be faking constriction. He crept closer and closer, until he stood only a foot away from her. The chair was facing away from him. He couldn't see if her eyes were open or shut.

"Don't move and don't try anything. If you've got a weapon put it down." a thin sheet of ice began forming beneath his shoe. Trish stirred slightly and groaned.

"Please shut up." Ghiaccio could barely hear her voice. He frowned as the words registered.

"What the hell did you just say to me? I think maybe you should start with an apology, considering you tried to sneak away!" the boy seethed. His anger was met with silence. "Well?!"

"I'm tied to a chair. On the floor." Ghiaccio's eye twitched.

"How do I know you're not just pretending to restrained? You could be free and hiding a knife or something."

"The only thing I have is a terrible headache from my head bashing against the ground, so please stop yelling. If you're so worried about the ropes just check them." He eyed her suspiciously before kneeling down and grabbing parts of the rope. All of them seemed to be tight.

"Alright, there's a chance that I was just tired and seeing things." He gulped. "Why did Prosciutto leave you on the floor anyway?" Changing the subject quickly seemed like the best choice considering his mistake.

"He didn't leave me on the floor. The chair fell." Trish mumbled. Ghiaccio stood back up and examined the chair's legs.

"The chair doesn't look broken. What made it fall?" He grinned to himself. It was obvious what had transpired. Even if he had just had a drowsy hallucination, he could call this a small victory.

"Well, maybe the ropes were a bit tight and I tried to loosen them a bit, and then lost my balance and hit my head." It was just as Ghiaccio had predicted. He basked in his small patch of glory momentarily before bending over to grab the back of the chair and hoist it up. He then swiveled the chair around so he could look her squarely in the face.

"Don't you ever try to break out of here. You might think this is bad, but we can do a whole lot worse. We weren't trained to be gentle." There was a ferocious look in the boy's eyes as he grinned down at her. Even if it was just an act, she wouldn't be able to tell.

"Noted. Could I have a pain killer or something?" she replied cooly. Such a response shocked Ghiaccio. It was easy to pick up on, as before he could regain his composure, his jaw had dropped. For a split second he stood there in front of her, frozen with disbelief. When he finally realized that he had been stuck looking like an idiot, he promptly swirled around and stomped up the stairs.


	3. Pensiero

Ghiaccio found himself standing in the kitchen. A single sink light flickered in front of him, contrasting against the darkness that enveloped the rest of La Squadra's base. In one hand he had a cup of water. In the other, two pills. What was he doing?

 _It's part of the job, right?_

Part of him wanted to dump the water, throw the pain killers in the sink, and shatter the glass. But when he tried to put his outburst into motion, he found his muscles unwilling to move. Ghiaccio somehow felt compelled to bring the water down to Trish. The two urges clashed together and locked him in indecision. It was such a disgusting feeling. His muscles were tense and his face was in a constant snarl. He grit his teeth and took a step forward. As much as the boy detested it, it was _something_.

He stomped down the basement stairs. The others might hear him, but he didn't care. If he had to suffer, they should too.

* * *

A job he didn't have to do just meant more freetime. It was a bonus, right?

Melone's inner pep talk wasn't really having much effect.

Sure, Ghiaccio taking his shift meant the blond had less work to do, but there was something so irritating about it. It was like a fly. He could ignore the faint buzzing, but the annoyance would still be there. He could only push it out of his thoughts for so long before it buzzed back in.

At first he took it as some show of kindness on Ghiaccio's part. He was finally acting like a friend! Returning Melone's affection! Think of it - a wonderful act of selflessness.

"Yeah right," Melone whispered to himself. The words cut through the silence of his room. He knew Ghiaccio better than that. His version of caring was never so straightforward. Melone readjusted his bedsheets, pulling the covers up around his ears. Even with them dulling his hearing, he could still hear his friend stomping somewhere in the base.

So what was the reason then? Why had Ghiaccio taken up another shift - specifically his? The blond rolled over. Why did it bug him so much? Was Ghiaccio trying to send some type of message?

Melone shut his eyes. Just brush it off.

But it could have been interesting work. This _was_ the boss's daughter. She was bound to be unique in some way. The very idea of her existence filled him with questions - he'd love to have a nice long conversation with her.

Maybe that was the reason.

He frowned. The idea made him tense up. Was that what Ghiaccio really thought of him? It would be just like him, sneaking around and doing things without talking to anyone else.

What a nuisance.

* * *

Morning always came too quickly. Risotto often felt that he watched the entire night pass by through the window. The moon rose. Stars beamed. They did their dance across the sky until the sun extinguished them.

In his somber haze where sleep was unattainable, he wondered why they reminded him of people. Set in their places, the world moved them. The silver haired man was not a poet. His fleeting thoughts had no place on paper or in text books. These thoughts that occupied his mind struck him as overly ornate, and near embarrassing for someone like himself. Still, his mind wandered in the night.

Risotto Nero had mourned only once in his life. He'd lost his parents at a young age. Too young to understand. There was a numbness when he thought of this - It wasn't a true sadness, only an absence. His uncle took care of him after that. Those memories were dismal. It was a chapter of his life that started and ended with death. His cousin was the first person he'd ever truly lost.

Those memories were stains inside his head.

What he'd felt then was an echo of what he felt now. When he'd been pulled out of the slums to work for Passione, they were the first ones at his side. When he'd first been introduced to Sorbet and Gelato, Risotto had found their eccentricism and hot-cold duo a bit off putting. But he grew to respect them. They'd quickly demonstrated their prowess in such a line of work. He wouldn't be afraid to call each a prodigy in their own right.

The cold Sorbet could read people with alarming ease. A slight tense of a muscle or twitch of the eyebrow and he had them cornered. On a few occasions, even Risotto himself had been unnerved in conversations with him.

Gelato was just the opposite. He was openly emotional and quick to make up his mind about things. The blonde was skilled in a technological-book smart kind of way. Even with his emotions, he had a gift for looking at things logically.

Risotto pulled himself out of bed. The sun was up. Any attempt to sleep was in vain. He should have known better than to try. The man pulled on a black turtleneck and a pair of slacks. If he was going to be awake, he was going to work. Perhaps he could distract himself with something. There were tracks to cover, people to pay off, and sources too call. He had to do what he could to keep everyone safe.

Risotto walked down the long corridor that led to the kitchen and living area. All the other doors were still closed. _They must be asleep._ He continued into the kitchen and opened the pantry. Inside an assortment of glasses and mugs gleamed with early morning sunlight. The man opted to pull out a coffee mug - not only was he tired, but the prospect of dealing with a shining glass didn't sit well with him right now.

He set the cup down and looked through the split in the wall. From where he stood beside the sink, he could see the dining table. It was severely neglected, without even a tablecloth. His men preferred to eat out in front of the television. He didn't mind, so long as they didn't make a mess.

As he began brewing himself a cup of coffee, Risotto heard the familiar sound of a squeaking door hinge. He continued his work. Whoever it was would probably appreciate that. He pried the lid from the container of coffee grounds. It's smell hit him like a wave, already calming his frayed nerves and lulling him into a bit of relaxation.

Perhaps it wasn't the fanciest of mixes, but it was enough. Risotto was not a picky man. A few of the others might turn their noses up at it, but it got the job done. It was even enjoyable for the humble - like himself.

"Enjoying it while you can?" The voice came from behind him. Prosciutto sounded as if he'd already been awake for quite some time.

"You're up early." Risotto responded. He measured out the coffee grounds he needed while he spoke. He glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to lift itself off the horizon.

"Aren't I usually?" He had a point. It was common for Prosciutto to wake up earlier than some of the others. But if he was up _this_ early, something must be out of place. "I've been a bit busy. Maybe worried is a better word. This is dangerous and you know it." At this, Risotto let out a deep sigh.

"We've been in danger since our friends tried to research the boss. It's nothing new." He firmly screwed the lid back onto the container.

"That's not what I mean. Being here. _Staying_ here. They're going to find us eventually. I know you've always taken precautions to distance us from the boss's eyes, but things are a lot more severe now. We used to just be somewhere on his list of people to kill - Now we're on top of it. Hell, we kidnapped his _daughter_! We've probably got our own list!" Risotto's hand lingering on top of the lid. His gaze was pointed downward.

Prosciutto had grown used to waiting through the other's silences. He recalled a moment long ago, the time shortly after the two had first met. For a few fleeting months, he had found the man's peculiar way of talking to be enigmatic. It gave him a wise-beyond-his-years feeling, and that impression had helped Risotto to earn his respect.

And yet today all it was doing was pissing him off.

He wanted to demand an answer. To tell the other to just spit out his words and cut the shitty facade. Proscuitto felt dozens of sentences piling up in his throat, his lungs burning with fierce exasperation.

"I've been planning," Prosciutto was caught of guard. He had been prepared to stay within is silent rage for longer. But Risotto had answer more swiftly than he had imagined. "I've been finding places for us to go. Because you're absolutely right. We're in more danger if we stay here. I've been going through Sorbet and Gelato's things as well. Files, Texts, anything for a hint as to what to do next." He lifted his hand from the lid to push a button on the coffee machine. "We're going to go after him. The boss of Passione. Should he try to counter us or send his men, we use Trish as leverage. Tell the others when they wake up; Tonight we leave for Pompeii."

The blond stood frozen for a moment.

"I'll be sure to do so." As Prosciutto walked away, he became stuck on one particular thought. How could Risotto Nero always so perfectly defuse him. It seemed that everytime he came to the other full of rage or any other sour emotion, he left the conversation feeling mellow.

It was an amazing gift his leader had - even though he was nearly impossible to read, he always seemed to be able to understand what to say to others.


	4. Incontrare

Trish Una had been staring forward vacantly for the last hour. Occasionally her gaze would drop down from the endless highway, landing on the dashboard's clock. She charted the minutes that ticked by, praying for time to speed up and let her leave this situation. With the new number recorded in her head, her eyes would land again on the road.

The girl did not dare allow herself to look left or right. It was her wish to be able to sit quietly for the entirety of the trip. All the seats in the car besides her own were filled with ruthless mafioso. To her left, a bulky man with a single sprout of green hair and a pushed in face. To her right, a man in... pigtails? It certainly wasn't the most traditional hairstyle for someone like him.

Truthfully, she didn't like either of their tastes. The bulky man was wearing a yellow coat over a black heart-dotted bodysuit. Pigtails wore a bubbly vest. It was alright at best - she'd seen high fashion pieces that were similar, but the rest of his clothes matched it's texture and ruined any appeal it could have. Her eyes moved to the front of the vehicle, briefly passing over the clock before continuing to the passenger seat. She couldn't see much more than a red jacket. Maybe a few studs on the shoulders. Moving on. She had already gotten a good look at the man who was currently driving. His name was Prosciutto. He was well dressed by her standards. The suit was tasteful, if a little, well, open. He'd tried to talk to her many times in the two days she'd been with them.

Always about her father.

Couldn't they just accept that she didn't know anything? They could try a thousand times and she'd still have nothing to tell them. Her mother didn't talk about him. How could you expect her to open up about such a bitter topic to the child he had abandoned? Left her all alone to raise and take care of? Any love she felt for Trish's father has been carried away with him. Trish felt the same way. Her feelings for even the idea of him were an icy cavity in her heart. It wasn't just numbness - there was a sting, a prickling anger.

Deep down, she felt that the goals these men sought to accomplish were justified.

Suddenly she felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. In the rear view mirror's reflection, she could see Prosciutto's eyes glaring back at her. She slapped herself mentally. She had gotten distracted, forgotten her place and let her eyes and thoughts wander. Back to the clock. Only a couple of minutes had passed.

* * *

"I don't care, I prefer it that way!" The curly haired boy was nearly shouting, half slouched against his bright red car.

"Well that is a lot better than taking offense." Melone was grinning slyly. Sure, his best friend was known for getting loud and violent, but that didn't stop him from teasing him now and then. No one had more talent for it than the blond. It took a gentle touch and quite a bit of finesse to rattle the other without causing a full blown tantrum.

"If they hate riding with me, then fine! At least there's no one to bitch about the music or whine about the speed limit!" Ghiaccio huffed. He dug his hands into his pockets and stormed off toward a small outlet containing informational packets.

"Hey now, don't wreck anything! This is historical Pompeii after all." He snickered to himself while giving his motorcycle a once over, just to be sure it would be safe while he was away. It practically shone in comparison to the car it was parked next to. Ghiaccio's driving habits had left the vehicle with more than a few scratches and dings. Satisfied, Melone sauntered after his friend.

They'd arrived before the rest of their team - and it was no mystery why. Ghiaccio always sped, and Melone didn't want to let him go anywhere alone with the kind of situation they were in. It would probably a short wait before the rest of their friends caught up, but the blond man was still on guard. He wasn't even sure why they were here. Surely their capo had a plan, but he had chosen not to share the details with anyone. Still, Melone trusted him. He had never led them astray before. The sun was setting, and any tourists still around were headed out.

"You know, Pompeii was known for fish sauce before all the death and destruction." Ghiaccio's voice sounded like a restrained hiss as he leafed through one of the brochures. Melone smiled. He was trying hard to calm himself down, wasn't he? The curly haired boy threw the pamphlet onto the ground as he moved on to the next one. "This is all bullshit tourist stuff. It's not in there. I just heard that somewhere."

"Anything you'll find in a brochure is going to be old news to a local. They'll obviously have heard it a million times." He picked up the brochure and dusted away the dirt that had stuck to the page. It was in English, and told the most basic story of the ancient city. Ghiaccio was right to throw it away. Melone repeated the other's action.

The blond sighed and looked around. He felt even more on edge now that they'd arrived. He felt as if they were in a fishbowl. Somewhere outside, there were spectators. The thought of someone watching every move they made had him anxious. He knew the feelings would dissipate once the others arrived, but for now they were alone.

Ghiaccio started to wander off again, this time towards a bench. Melone took a deep breath and followed. At the very least, he could lose himself in the ruins cast long shadows in the dipping sun. These dark projections overtook rubble and smaller structures, making those that could still bathe in the light even more beautiful. The aged stone took on the colors of the sky it was set against.

Despite the serenity, there was still a quiet despair to it. Walk far enough into the ruins and you'd catch sight of the preserved corpses, their stony limbs curled in agony. As if they could hide from death.

Melone recalled a figure he'd seen in his childhood. A mother shielding it's child. It lacked the full details to truly confirm it as such, but the body language captured was enough to tell the story. It struck him deeply. It didn't make him happy, nor sad. Nothing so simple could describe it. The closest he'd ever gotten to describing the feeling was "resentment."

The tell tale sound of tires on gravel caught the men's attention. A black car filled with the familiar faces of their team pulled into the lot.

* * *

"I can see them!" The boy's hushed tone was almost betrayed by his excitement and anticipation. "I'm grinding them into the dirt the first chance I get, I swear it!" His attention was completely consumed by the small screen the hovered in front of his eye.

"Settle down! If you mess this up I'm gonna kill you! We're not supposed to attack them unless we get the okay, you know that!" The second male smacked the first on the shoulder, prompting a slight exclamation.

"OW! Hey!" The first boy turned to a third, blond male. "Tell him he can't do that!" The blond sighed weakly in response, eyes still straining to get a good look at their target's from so far away.

"If you mess this up, I'm also going to kill you."

* * *

Prosciutto fought the urge to light up a cigarette. He tapped his foot impatiently. His arms were crossed, eyes alert. Everyone was here except for their boss. Risotto had opted to travel separate from the others. This wasn't a new phenomenon - he was a private man, and prefered his own quiet methods over sharing a car with his often rambunctious teammates.

But to stick to that kind of thing in this situation was ludicrous, at least in Prosciutto's mind. He knew he wasn't the only one feeling on edge. Every single member of La Squadra knew what a dire situation they were in. Risotto could of course take care of himself, but what if trouble had found him? What if there had been an ambush? Without their Capo, everything would fall apart. They'd have no option but to surrender and let themselves be killed.

No sooner had the blonde reached into his pocket than the tall and sturdy form of their leader appeared in the ruins. He could feel the others stir with excitement as they saw him. Even the boss's daughter straightened up at his presence. The man approached them at his own pace. His expression was serious yet calm.

"We all made it here. Good. Stay on guard." His eyes drifted across each of his men before landing on the girl. They'd decided to go light on the restraint, only binding her hands in front of her. Pesci had a hand on her shoulder. He'd been tasked with keeping an eye on her for now. If she tried to escape, his Beach Boy would easily be able to thwart her plans. "We'll be meeting up with an ally at the amphitheater. This place will be deserted shortly, that's when we start moving." He paused to look out across the ruined city. "We can't be followed."

As the group began to move forward, their boss's words sunk in. They scanned the debris for anything out of the ordinary. The setting sun left tall shadows that would occasionally catch a weary assassin's eye. As it dipped further below the horizon, the air of anticipation thickened.

Prosciutto let out a long kept breath. Despite his apprehension, it was very unlikely that they'd be attacked here. If someone had been sent to attack them, it would have likely been at their former base, or while they were on the road and spread apart. It would take a complete idiot to try attacking the entire group at once. After all, they were a pack of highly skilled mercenaries. They could more than handle any threat that was thrown at them. The blond relaxed slightly, his eyes landing on his teammates. Any adversary would be flung into an immediate deathtrap.

Risotto stopped and lifted his hand.

All movement stopped as seven sets of eyes snapped to attention. Prosciutto looked past their leader. Despite his frantic searching, he found nothing. There was no one crouched behind the rocks, or leaning against the walls. There was only the empty pathway that they had been following. The last fleeting rays of sunlight stretched down the ancient streets, as if they were reaching out and digging their nails into the soil. Holding on for dear life. The dark of night began to swallow the city as Risotto crouched down.

Prosciutto stepped forward to leer over his shoulder. He was holding something between his index finger and thumb. It's stem had yet to be severed from the loose bricks it miraculously grew out of. A swarm of yellow petals gazed toward the sky, longing for a sun that had now disappeared.

"Why've we stopped?" Formaggio shuffled towards the front of the group, joining Prosciutto to look over their Capo's shoulder. "What? An achillea? Just leave it alone, let's go!" The ginger stepped forward past their leader, gesturing for him to move on as well.

"This shouldn't be here." The words stopped Formaggio.

"Alright, it's messing up the scenery, whatever. We've got places to be, don't we? We're almost there already, let's just get this trip done!" He wasn't the only one that wanted to move on - all the others seemed to favor the idea of getting to the amphitheater over extending their hours spent out in the open.

"No. This isn't normal." The silver haired man stood up. He took a slow step forward, as if to test the ground. "Be ready for anything. Ghiaccio, Pesci. Have your stands ready in case anything happens." The two men nodded. Beach Boy materialized as flakes of ice began to stick onto the curly haired boy's jacket. They moved forward, turning the corner of a well preserved building.

Beyond them was a field of rubble. All the structures in the area had been almost completely destroyed some time in the distant past. Within the broken walls of an ancient home, a boy stood in the moonlight. His back was to them, face raised slightly towards the sky. The soft glow of the rising celestial bodies lit up the checkered tail of his navy jacket and his golden braid.

Prosciutto was first struck with a wave of surprise - they hadn't expected to see anyone here at this hour, unless it was an enemy. But this was a child, he could be no older than the boss's daughter. With that logic fresh in his mind, he pushed past the surprise onto a calm.

And yet he still sensed there was something wrong.

"Why are you out here this late?" Risotto's level voice rang out before Prosciutto could react. "Children should be at home. The night isn't safe." The boy turned towards them in response. Despite the distance, they could make out a light smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, I got lost on a tour. I've been trying to find my way out of here for awhile now. Do you all have a map?" The boy's request seemed reasonable enough. It was certainly an unexpected sight for them, but this wouldn't have been the first time someone got lost in Pompeii. Risotto began to move toward him, lifting a pamphlet from his pocket.

"I can give you directions." As the Capo spoke, he opened it to a full map of the area. "Which exit are you looking for?" He towered over the boy, over a full foot taller. The other had to stretch slightly to see the map Risotto held. He pointed to a location on the other side of the city.

"This one. I think there was a weird statue of an animal around there?" He continued scanning the map. Prosciutto wasn't even sure what to do. Right now he could only watch as his boss offered directions to the child. Further back in the group, Trish was frozen in shock.

She knew him. That boy had been part of the group that was supposed to protect her. His name was Giorno. Why was he here? Where were the other? Were they trying to save her?

"It's almost a straight walk there. We're right here," he pointed to the corresponding location. "Keep the map."

"Thank you for your help, but I might get lo-" Giorno started speaking again, only to be cut off.

"Didn't you come with your family or something? Are you telling me they just left you here? At night?" Risotto's face had retained its seriousness throughout the conversation. Now his night stained eyes had landed on the boy.

"No, I actually came here on my own. I thought it might be pretty, and I wanted to see it for myself." The golden haired boy's voice didn't falter. He seemed completely sure of himself and his answer.

"So you're not a tourist? You're a local who has never visited Pompeii before?" Risotto's suspicion had begun to bleed through his voice. The boy's blue eyes dared to look back into his. Trish strained to hear their conversation, fearing any detail she might miss. She'd already looked to see if any of the others were around. Had he really come alone?

"Yes. I just moved here recently. I'm not much a fan of family outings. Anyway, I think I'll be able to handle getting back on my own now." Giorno finished his sentence, only to find Risotto laying a hand on his shoulder.

"My men told me everything they saw at the vineyard." His cold eyes bore into the boy. Giorno's expression changed suddenly. He sucked in a breath, eyes suddenly dropping to look down at his feet. "Did you think we wouldn't know who you were?"

"Giorno, run! Just give it up now!" Trish yelled out, prompting all eyes to turn toward her. Pesci grabbed her arm. Formaggio wore a smug grin as he turned to her.

"The kid should have known better than to try playing games with our boss. I don't think he's going anywhere." He gestured towards the boy's feet. Trish stared in shock. Hints of red had begun to pool on the ground where he stood.

"I know you're a stand user. I know you and your team probably have some sort of retaliation ready." Risotto paused. Metallica writhed around his hand as another nail formed inside of Giorno's foot and forced itself into the ground. The boy winced, teeth clamped tightly together. Beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead. "I'll only say this once. Leave us alone. You can go free. I would hate to have to hurt a child more than I already am. You're certainly not weak, I can feel that. But you are outnumbered. I'm giving you a chance to leave with your life. Take it." He removed his hand from Giorno's shoulder. Risotto slipped the map into the boy's hand before rejoining his group and rushing them onward.

Trish turned as far back as she could manage. Her eyes caught Giorno's. She wanted to call out to him once more, tell him she was sorry. That she wished that this didn't have to happen. But she could only muster silence as she saw his face.

He looked tranquil. He was fighting back excruciating pain, and yet he seemed almost happy. Trish watched as he lowered himself to his knees and slowly began to pry his left foot from the ground.

And then he was gone. Her vision blocked by the city.

* * *

The meeting in the amphitheater was quick, and nearly silent. A man had hidden there to wait for them. He gave them some information before parting with the group. At the time, Trish didn't really understand it.

After another drive (this one much shorter than the last), they arrived at an inconspicuous house on the edge of a town. She expected someone to greet them at the door - the lights were on inside, after all. But it was unlocked and vacant. The group let themself in, and after thoroughly checking the place, found not another soul.

For the first time that day, there was a sense of peace. Even Trish felt at ease. Well, being given a room to stay in instead of a chair in the basement certainly helped. She had privacy and comfort. Two things she had missed dearly. Sure, there would still be people around guarding her, and the window was firmly bolted shut. But this was a step up from what she'd be given before.

It almost reminded her of the room she'd stayed in while still with Buccellati's team. She hugged her knees to her chest, having decided that she'd been stretching out on the bed long enough. They'd told her to keep the curtains shut. If the lights were off in her room, no one could see in. Following that, she allowed herself to inch the shades open just slightly.

The same moon that had illuminated Giorno in Pompeii had risen high into the sky. The tall trees that acted as a barrier between this house and the rest of the world seemed to reach toward that moon, gently cradling it.

How would things have been different if she was still with Buccellati, Giorno, and the others? Would she really have had to meet her father? And what then? Was she supposed to adjust to a life like this? Being carted from place to place like luggage by criminals she didn't know? She pushed those thoughts from her mind.

She wanted her mother.

* * *

Giorno leaned back against one of the crumbling steps of the amphitheater. His shoes sat to the side of him. His bloodied socks had been discarded. The boy gingerly pressed a hand to where his wound had been. He could replace the damaged membrane with his stand, but it still hurt like hell. Mista observed his actions from the next stair up.

"Yikes." Giorno nodded knowingly in response. "I get the whole idea of using the new kid as the distraction thing, but we should have known they saw you at the vineyard house. Sorry about that."

"I volunteered. You don't have to be sorry. What's important is that Buccellati's plan worked." Giorno sighed, slipping the torn up shoes back onto his now-sockless feet. Truly, he had helped hatch the scheme, but the others couldn't know that. Not yet.

Just beyond the skene, they could see Moody Blues finish it's recital and return to its normal form. Narancia plopped down next to Mista.

"How long do you think we'll have to follow them around like this? It's kind of a drag. I still think we should just hit them all quick and hard!" He pounded his hand against the ground, as if to demonstrate.

"No, getting kicked out of the mafia is a drag. People don't survive this kind thing!" Mista grunted. Giorno continued to look forward while listening to the two bicker. As far as they knew, this was just the action they had to take to fix this mess before they were found out. Buccellati had elected not to tell them the truth for the time being.

But truthfully, information flies fast in the underworld.

They were already as good as dead in the eyes of Passione.


	5. Inquietudine

The night had been excruciating for Formaggio. Well, it was actually early morning. The ginger had been lucky enough to be stationed outside Trish's room from 4 AM to 8 AM. It was cruel. It was torture. What had he done to deserve this?

Risotto knew that he hated waking up early. Formaggio was a stay out late, sleep in late kind of guy. He had his routine and he'd like to indulge it as much as he could.

But what the boss said went. He respected his Capo too much to go against orders.

From where he was slouched he could see a wall mounted clock. It was 7:35. His eternity of torment was nearing it's end. The first thing he'd do would be make himself toast - no, he was going to make an omelette. One so big that it nearly sloshed out of the pan.

...Did they even have eggs here? The fridge had been adequately stocked when they'd arrived the night before. Prosciutto had offered to cook for everyone and Pesci had joined him. Formaggio himself had scoured the the place for snacks around midnight, but were there eggs? No matter how hard he tried to conjure the fridge's contents in his mind, he couldn't seem to recall. Something so basic as eggs just had to be included, right?

"You want anything?" Formaggio glanced upward, shocked to be pulled out of his deep introspection. Illuso was standing over him, half leaning against a wall. His hair was free and disheveled. The ginger could tell that he'd only just woken up.

"Want any what now?" The ginger questioned. llluso squinted his eyes and shrugged in response.

"I don't know. Just anything. I'm going to the kitchen and I can grab you something if you want." Formaggio blinked. His best friend was offering him this favor, and yet part of him wanted to decline. He was the only one that could make himself the perfect breakfast he'd been dreaming of. Illuso simply wasn't up to the task.

But having Illuso do it for him would be easier. That was the biggest problem. He could either do work and get exactly what he wanted, or relax and get something half baked.

This decision was too much for him right now. He was already feeling delirious from lack of sleep. He slumped down against the wall.

"Just get me some water." It was too early to question any sort of behavior, so Illuso just continued on towards the kitchen.

* * *

An unfamiliar bed had done no favors for Risotto. But he had no time nor reason to complain about the thin blankets or overly soft pillow. In fact, the past night was the best sleep he'd gotten in over a week. He'd been able to drift out of consciousness a few times, getting some solid hours.

But tiny noises easily woke him. Any creek or thud, no matter how small, could pull him back to reality. The capo had leapt from bed a number of times, peering first around his room, then moving to the hallways of the house. Only after a lap of each open room and a bit too much time peering out each window would he be satisfied. It was settling wood, nothing more.

But Risotto still worried. He and his men weren't safe anymore, even here. He knew they thought this hideout was secure and hidden from Passione's radar. It probably was. But he'd been through too much to let his guard down. People he cared about were dead. More would be if he wasn't careful. He couldn't let anything else happen. They were his responsibility.

The man let out a deep sigh as he leaned upright. Yesterday he'd seen his men joking and having fun. It was a scene that reminded him of the times before they'd been in so much trouble. It made him happy. A smile grew on his face. He'd trade his own peace of mind for theirs any day.

* * *

"Alright, times up." Ghiaccio shooed the ginger away with his hands. "Go sleep in til the afternoon or whatever." Formaggio looked up from his cup of water.

"Geez, why do you always gotta be like this? What, are you excited for guard duties or something? Getting a bit too attached to the boss's daughter, huh?" He teased, lifting himself from the hall floor just in time to avoid a kick to the ribs. "Man, it's really too bad. You're gonna be stuck here all morning while I get to go and enjoy breakfast and free time." Formaggio made a show of stretching and cracking his neck. Ghiaccio's eyebrows dropped flat as he frowned. He didn't find any of what his comrade had said or did to be amusing. But he was used to this kind of behavior by now - live with anyone long enough and you'll find a way to manage their quirks.

Ghiaccio refused to break eye contact as he dropped his hand onto the doorknob. Within seconds, fractals of ice began to spur forth from where his hand lay. The entire knob and lock were frozen in a miniature glacier. Ice continued to creep down the door frame, further sealing the room closed. Ghiaccio then dropped his hand to his side and pushed past Formaggio, who was too shocked - and insulted - to move. All he could focus on was formulating some sort of snappy come back.

"I'd just keep her in a fish tank if they let me!" he yelled down the hall. Ghiaccio had already turned a corner. Formaggio scowled. He waited a moment to put some distance between himself and the boy before stomping towards the kitchen.

* * *

Trish recoiled. The doorknob was ice cold. Upon drawing her hand back from the knob, a piece of her skin had torn away. She held her hand gently as her mind raced to find an answer. Her room wasn't cold. It wasn't even winter.

She reached out again - this time with more hesitation. She stopped an inch short of the middle of the door. Nothing but the room's normal temperature there. Trish then moved her hand outward toward the knob. The closer her hand got, the more cold she could feel emanating of off it. This was only one of the many strange things she'd noticed since her kidnapping. It was no mystery that these odd events had to do with the mobsters that surrounded her.

Trish placed her hand at the center of the door and took a deep breath. She knocked twice, then waited.

Nothing.

She knocked again, this time with a bit more force. Still no response. This was beginning to agitate her. Trish kicked the bottom of the door. Her bare toes connecting with the door shot a jolt of pain up her body. She reeled back, barely catching herself on the end of her bed. The girl plopped down with a hefty sigh and slung her reddened foot up onto her knee. She curled her toes tightly, praying for the pain to abate.

She refused to consider this a setback. Today needed to be different. She couldn't keep being complicit forever. As she sat, a thought dawned on her. Rebelling against her captors meant putting herself in danger. It meant aggravating seven seasoned criminals that already had the upper hand. Did her will to rage against them come from the superficial freedom this room had given her? Had she somehow come to believe that being imprisoned in a room rather than a chair gave her power over her situation?

It wasn't these thoughts that made Trish shiver. It was how little she reacted to them. She felt nothing. She didn't care. The fear she had felt throughout the last few days had begun to numb her, eating away at her nerves and leaving hollow pits in her mind.

The first thing Trish had thought of when she woke was Giorno. She had been so scared for him, so horrified when Risotto had hurt him.

But he wasn't on her side. None of them were. Giorno wasn't there to "save" her. He was there out of self interest. That was the core of all of their actions. She didn't matter as a human, only as a piece of a puzzle or a key to lead them to wealth and power. Trish had been stripped of her identity the day her mother died. She'd lost her ability to choose.

A week ago she had had friends. Goals, grades, drama, hobbies, likes, dislikes, crushes, and family. She'd had a life. The world had been full of choices that she was free to make. The only choice Trish had now was whether or not she'd make a fuss.

And she decided that it was about time she did.

She lowered her foot to the ground. The girl dropped a hand to the floor and fished around for her boots. She slipped the footwear on and hoisted herself up. This time she had a plan. Trish stared down the door. Arms crossed. Gaze intense. She walked slowly forward. If looks could kill, her target would have been reduced to toothpicks. Now for the approach. Each stride was full of silent confidence. She stopped inches from the door and gripped the frame for support. Trish swung her foot back and slammed it into the door, producing a loud Thunk.

She let the sound echo for a moment. It bounced around the room and resonated within her ears. It was the sound of something new. She kicked at the door again, causing another noise to barrel down the hall. She could keep this up all day - it's not like she had anything better to do. They could ignore her, or she could eventually kick through the door. Trish didn't care which came first. All she had to do was continue this action. She jabbed her foot at the door again.

"What are you doing?" The deep baritone voice startled her and she froze mid kick. Now she that she'd gotten a response, she almost didn't know what to say.

Almost.

"I need new clothes." It was a demand. Trish knew that was a risky way to start, but it was exactly how she wanted to begin. "I've been wearing the same thing for days and I feel disgusting." Her words hung in the air. She could feel beads of sweat form as the silence stretched out. Had the man left? She had this chance and she blew it, didn't she? Just as soon as her worries had set in, the man responded.

"Alright."

That was it. Simple, and to the point. But still an agreement. Trish smiled, allowing herself a moment to bask in the glow of this small victory.

"I want to be able to shower to. And some food. I haven't eaten since yesterday." She held her breath. The anticipation was killing her, and yet in this moment she lived for it.

"You'll have to wait for the shower. We can get you food." Trish found herself focusing so greatly that she could hear as the man's hand hit the door knob briefly before pulling away. Well, the affinity for ice wasn't shared between this man and the blue haired boy.. "Hold on." She heard the muted sound of feet hitting a carpeted floor. Trish was practically leaning on the door - but making sure to keep her distance from the frigid edge.

The girl waited, ear pressed against wood. She could only guess that her skin there had begun to take on a pinkish color, blood rushing to cure the chill that had crept up the door. There were voices somewhere. Too muted to tell who was speaking or what was being said, but what she could hear was without a doubt the telltale sound of conversation.

Her attention was so greatly eaten up by trying to work out words that she didn't notice as the frost melted off the door. Only when the girl's fingers brushed against the wood as she repositioned herself did she realize the freezing temperature that had once plagued the door was gone. She was stunned for a moment. Only one thought was on her mind. She knew she would act on it, but she didn't know when her body would let her. Trish pushed back against the anticipation that crowded her every nerve and reached for the knob. The girl held her breath as she attempted to turn it.

And that was it. Nothing more than a tiny click and the door was loose.

Trish hadn't known what to expect when she opened it. She had been acting on pure instinct, totally enthralled by the sudden change in the situation. The tall, imposing figure of Risotto Nero standing beyond the door starkly shocked her back to reality.

"You look like you've been having trouble sleeping." He observed. His dark eyes leered down at her. Trish felt dread shake through her body. She realized this was the first time that he had spoken to her so directly. Before he'd sent one of the others to deal with her, usually Prosciutto. It was obvious that he was intimidating - he was a gang member after all, a criminal and a murderer. But the encounters where he'd payed her no mind could never have prepared her for this. Trish was the center of his attention. It felt like being caught in crosshairs. She swallowed and found her throat to be tight. She wanted to look away, to escape those terrible eyes. The red that pooled in their center harked back to the many atrocious crimes she knew he had committed. To how he had harmed Giorno.

"It hasn't been easy." Trish squeaked. She had to hold her ground somehow, even with a pitiful noise like that.

"Hm." He turned away and began walking down the hall. Trish was once again left in an astonished silence.

"Uh-" She looked down each side of hall. Her hands gripped onto the sides for support. She didn't notice as her knuckles turned white. Risotto looked back over his shoulder at her.

"Are you coming? You're hungry right?" He waited for her at the end of the hall. She took a cautious step into the unknown. Despite the fact that this was nothing more than a well lit hallway, to her it seemed to reek of danger. But she nodded and followed Risotto anyway. He turned a corner, leading them both through a living room and into the kitchen.

Formaggio leaned against one of the counters. In his hand was a plate holding a large omelette. As he bit a piece off his fork, his eyes landed on Trish. Something between a grunt and a question came from his now open mouth, revealing half chewed food.

Without missing a beat, Risotto cut the omelette on the ginger's plate in half and slid the newly detached chunk onto the plate he'd retrieved from the cabinets. He offered the plate to Trish, who delicately accepted.

"Hey, what!" Formaggio's head whipped around to face his Capo, who met his annoyance with a stony stare.

"She needs to eat too." he lectured. Formaggio simply grumbled and turned his focus back to his food while inching slightly away from the others. Risotto looked back to the girl and waited. Trish found this situation to be less than ideal for dining.

"Should I go back to that room or-" She started.

"No, you can stay here." He gestured to the table where Illuso sat. As their attention turned to him, his eyes slid back down to the paper he'd been reading before they arrived. "Illuso, I have something I need you to do." Risotto addressed the man while Trish crept toward the seat farthest from him. "Go to a store and find her clothes."

"Weren't there some spare clothes left here for us?" he grumbled, prying his gaze from the paper.

"There were." He turned to Trish, who was cutting a bite off of the omelette. "But none of it would fit her well. She deserves a least a bit of comfort." The girl blinked, trying to maintain eye contact with only her food.

"Fine." Illuso sighed and lifted himself from the chair. He grabbed a set of keys from the counter and headed toward the house's front door.

"Illuso." Risotto's deep voice stopped him mid step. "Use your Man in the Mirror to escape if you even slightly suspect that something is wrong." He nodded in response to the order before slipping on his shoes and departing. Trish continued to look down.

"Maybe it would be better if someone followed him back." Her words turned Risotto's attention to Trish once more.

"Excuse me?" Trish refused to lift her head. Her defiant act was certainly purposeful. But she also had nothing else to say to him. She had made her cold statement, and she'd leave it at that. Risotto stepped toward her and waited briefly. Once sure that she had no plans to respond, he took a seat at the opposite end of the table. "Have you considered what your life would be like if the boss did find you?" he offered. Trish didn't reply. "Prosciutto has told me that you're not fond of him. Or the idea of him at least." Once again he let his words hang in the air before continuing. He'd give her as many chances to respond as he could. "You say you've never met him. But you could be lying about that. Maybe it's not my place to tell you about your father. I don't know him either. But I do know of him, and I know what he's done. Shall I recount to you the horrors I've heard of? Or just the ones that I've experienced personally?" Trish shifted slightly.

The Capo set an elbow on the table and leaned into his hand. He closed his eyes. Images of the boss's most recent cruelty were forever burned into his mind. But there were more before that. There were hundreds of whisper's he'd heard. People he'd met that later dropped off the face of the planet. Many of these things didn't unsettle him in the slightest. He had become so accustomed to this sort of environment that these "horror stories" seemed natural as the trees that surrounded the house. But Trish hadn't seen and heard the things he had. She had lived a normal life up until a week ago. Stories of mutilation and death didn't become her.

"I don't want to hear any of it." She whispered. Perhaps there were better ways of reaching an understanding. "I already know he's terrible. It's not like I don't know that crime exists. I'm not an idiot."

"Then why do you still want him to find you?" Risotto pushed.

"I don't." He blinked and waited for an explanation. "There's no ideal situation for me anymore. It's all shit. I don't want to live with a criminal who just happens to be my father anymore than I want to be sitting here trying to eat a meal given to me by my abductor."

"I'm sorry for that." Trish hadn't been expecting an apology, but it still did little to surprise her. She sighed in response. "I wish we hadn't been forced into doing something like this." Risotto added.

"Forced? Really? You were forced into committing this crime. Oh I'm so sure that's the truth. It wasn't because it was in your best interest to kidnap the boss's daughter and use her as leverage." She hissed. Risotto glared at her, a touch of anger creeping into his calm composure. Trish shrunk back, once again very aware of the danger this situation boasted.

"This is a matter of protecting the people I have left in this world." His tone was intense. Each word dropped like a brick of lead. He closed his eyes. The muscles on his chest expanded and contracted silently as he took a deep breath. "My words may not mean anything to you, but I can assure you that this isn't about money or power. This is about staying alive."

Trish looked back to her half eaten omelette as the tension in the room slowly dissipated. She knew that beggars can't be choosers, but it wasn't very well made. That ginger was a terrible chef.

* * *

As one channeled flashed into another, it became apparent that there was nothing worth watching on the television. Yet Melone continued his search. He was too bored to do much else. Sure, the ability to relax for once was nice, but there wasn't much here that kept his attention. Ghiaccio had resorted to leafing through magazines on the other end of the couch.

Melone continued flipping through channels. Weather. Sitcom. News. Cartoon. The sudden sound of ripping paper took his attention from the screen. He turned his head just in time to see his friend pitch the shredded magazine behind the couch.

"Well you're having a rough day." The blonde mumbled. Ghiaccio snapped his attention to the other. Great. "Too many ads?" He offered.

"Fuck off." He seethed. Melone's eyebrows dipped in response. His friend had been in a mood all day. Well, some might claim he'd been in a mood his whole life. Melone was nearing the end of his tolerance.

"You're really going to need to learn how to manage your anger someday." Melone turned back to the TV. There was definitely going to be backlash for that comment.

"Christ, I'm not even allowed to be upset? Real fucking empathetic of you, Melone." He sneered, kicking a leg onto the table - and nearly knocking it over in the process.

"No, you're not allowed to lash out at people every time you feel slightly angry. That's called being a child." Flecks of annoyance were beginning to show in his tone.

"Slightly angry? Sorbet and Gelato are dead. The boss murdered them! They're gone! Am I supposed to be elated or something?" He was beginning to yell. Melone hit the power button. Those names took away any calm he had left in him.

"You know you're not the only one that misses them. We all miss them. I miss them." The blond's words were sharp enough to cut stone.

"You miss them? You barely even knew them! I doubt they even wanted to know you!" He roared. Next came a sudden hesitation as Ghiaccio realized the words he had spit at his friend. He switched between scowl and frown, unsure of which emotion to follow. The rage that boiled him from the inside desperately fought for control. He shouldn't have to apologize. Melone couldn't tell him how to feel.

The blonde looked away from him. His gaze centered back on the black screen. He looked hollow. Defeated. There was nothing else for him to say. This was just another reminder of how little Ghiaccio must care for him. Every day Melone did his best to ignore it. To explain away the other's cruel behavior and assure himself that they were indeed friends. But he was probably right. It wouldn't be far-fetched for Sorbet and Gelato to be disgusted with him. That had been the pattern his whole life. People had a clear distaste for Melone. Why would Ghiaccio be any different?

The front door flung open, yanking Ghiaccio and Melone out of their chaos. Illuso stood in the doorway pale and breathless. His hand was clasped tightly around a bag of clothes.

"Get Risotto here right now. There's a body on the lawn."


	6. Piangente

The world seemed to tilt slightly as Risotto gazed at the corpse on the front lawn. His fingers dug into the wood of the door frame - his men would mistake this as an aggressive move, never guessing from his strong form and rigid posture that he was afraid his steps might falter.

"There's no way.. This has to be some kind of fluke..!" Prosciutto stood just behind the capo, fingers slowly knotting up beneath his tied locks of blonde hair. "They couldn't have found us already!" He ripped the hand from is head and slammed a fist into the wall. Risotto took another step out into the yard.

"Tell everyone that we need to move. I'll travel with Ghiaccio, Formaggio, and Melone. Take Trish and the others and leave before us." The orders dropped from his mouth cooly as he approached the twisted human figure. The man lying face down on the pavement was stout and oddly garbed. A bandana that had once been tied around his forehead laid limply across his eyes. The cadaver wasn't familiar in the slightest to Risotto. He stood only a meter from it now. Guard up. Metallica whirred through his veins.

Ghiaccio burst through the door, barely allowing the latch enough time to open without flying to pieces. Formaggio stumbled out behind him. Both had the eyes of mad dogs, ready to sick if their leader commanded it.

"Get in the car. When you all are ready we'll leave." Risotto ordered. Formaggio opened his mouth as if to say something, but remained silent as he crossed to the car. Both men eyed the body wearily throughout their approach. They had been through enough to know when to keep their distance. The growl of a motor erupted from the side of the house, signifying that Melone was ready to leave. Ghiaccio tapped his fingers on the roof of the car as he stood outside the driver's seat. Formaggio was already inside.

"Come on Risotto. Prosciutto and the others already left out the back, and Melone is grabbing his motorcycle. Let's go." There was a hint of strain in Ghiaccio's voice. Risotto's eyes remained on the body. Something wasn't right. There were three stab wounds in the man's back, all fresh. But they were neither clean nor shallow. For a man this size...

A twitch caught his eye. Something tiny, a finger.

Risotto leapt backward as the man's hand sprung to life, clawing toward him. The capo did not hesitate. Before their enemy could even raise his head, twisted scraps of metal burst through the skin of his neck. They pierced through at every angle, some even dug into the ground. Satisfied with his work, Risotto turned and ducked into the passenger seat of the car.

"We need to go now." Ghiaccio nodded, breaking his fingers away from the ice that had instinctively formed between his hand and the hood of the car. He turned the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. They screeched out of the driveway, Melone following behind.

* * *

Formaggio leaned his head against the window of the car. They'd been driving for just over ten minutes now. Risotto still hadn't said a word. Every so often Ghiaccio would begin muttering as he drove, but the words he spoke were muddled by rage and incomprehensible. The redhead repositioned and looked behind them. Melone was still there on his motorcycle.

"So do we maybe want to go over how that happened?" Formaggio baited, hoping to get something from one of the others. Ghiaccio glared at him through the rearview mirror. Risotto let out a deep sigh.

"I wish I knew." It was all the Capo could offer. Truly he had no idea how that body had ended up outside their hideout. It was supposed to be safe. At least for a few days. But the boss's reach was so expansive..

"I guess our intel guy was wrong then? Or do you think he's working against us? What was his name again? Sounded like a dessert I think…" Formaggio glanced off into the distance again, a variety of pastries running through his head.

"It could be either. I would like for him to be trustworthy, but weariness won't harm us. If Sorbet and Gelato trusted him, then he's likely legitimate. I think it's more likely that the boss is closer behind us than we think." Risotto's eyes stared stagnantly forward. Formaggio frowned, his thoughts straightening out into a single query.

"But what if the informer was the one that ratted them out?" The redhead's question was met with a heavy silence. His words hung in the air, a reminder of the sheer ambiguity they faced. Formaggio looked down and settled back into the quiet of his seat. He looked out the back window. Melone was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"They must have specified where they'd be going at some point." Buccellati watched as Moody Blues replayed the action of retrieving eggs from the fridge. "It couldn't have been us that scared them away - not with that corpse out from. It was something else." Buccellati watched the faux red head poke around the kitchen a bit more before approaching the counter.

"We need to look further forward. They're still calm in this time frame." Abbacchio paused his stand as it grasped the stove's knobs. Even before Moody Blues changed back to its base form, the digits on it's forehead were spinning. "Should we try this room again?" Buccellati nodded.

"I want to find out where they were headed first, then we can see what happened out front." Abbacchio didn't react. Arms crossed, he kept his eyes on his stand. It had taken the form of a tall, well build man. His black sclera pierced into emptiness in front of him. Abbacchio had seen this sort of thing enough to know that there must have been someone else sitting at the table. Buccellati turned slightly to get a better view of the re enactment. "A safe house that fell through." He shook his head. "They should have known better. Passione has ways of finding out everything." As he spoke, the man's eyes rolled to meet the gaze of the golden haired boy that was currently crossing the living room behind Fugo.

The silently shared secrecy lasted only a brief moment. They both had jobs to do and appearances to maintain right now. It was still too soon to let the others know how how close Passione could be to executing every last one of them. Giorno's eyes were already centered back on the boy in front of him. The two had sifted through half the building in the last fifteen minutes.

"-So that's why it's important that we check for anything left behind. Abbacchio's stand can get us a lot of information, yes, but it's also possible that we could misinterpret that information and damn ourselves." Fugo continued with his explanation. Giorno was only half listening - this came as common sense to him. But he wouldn't resent being treated like a newbie. That's what they had come to believe he was. All but Buccellati. The pair moved past the living room towards a hallway. "We can split up here to check these rooms. Remember, if anything seems even a bit suspicious or out of.. Place.." The boy began to trail off, his eyes widening. Fugo turned his head toward the first door of the hallway, locked in a sudden, intense trance.

"What are you-" Giorno began, only to be swiftly cut off by Fugo raising a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. His expression had shifted from bewilderment to grave concentration. Giorno's gaze hit the door. There was something faintly tapping at his eardrum. Not a whisper, it carried pain… A sob? It was muffled, almost too small and suppressed to be heard. But as they focused, it became distinct. "That sounds like-"

"Trish." Fugo finished the sentence. He took hold of the door knob, now sure of his mission. Giorno was stunned. This couldn't be right. If the assassins had already cleared out of this house, they wouldn't have left Trish behind. The boy could no longer hear her beyond the door.

"Fugo, wait!" His warning was in vain - Fugo had already thrown the door open. Before their eyes could adjust to the shadows, a fist flew out at them. It's digits were dainty, and the stand's small wrist was covered in bangles. Fugo leaned to the side a fraction of a second before the attack would have landed. The punch crushed into the frame. He drew the door back, catching the arm.

"I don't know. Just anything. I'm going to the kitchen and I can grab you something if you want."

Fugo's head snapped toward the door frame - A pair of lips had grown where the stand had hit. It's words began in the middle of a conversation, disconnected and vague. It spoke with a man's voice. The trapped limb clawed at the air in front of it.

"Shit, this isn't good!" The outline of a stand began to appear behind Fugo. It gradually faded as he fought to suppress it's manifestation. "I can't use Purple Haze here! Giorno, get one of the others now!" Two hands appeared - this time those of a human - and began prying the door open. With the help of her stand, she could overpower him. Fugo released the door and retreated backward, arms spread to push Giorno back with him. The stand rushed out, stopping just beyond the doorway. It stood crouched on three of its limbs, the fourth propped against the wall. Golden Experience floated behind the two boys, waiting to counter whatever might come.

But the beastly stand stuck firm to it's spot, staring them down.

"You're not the ones I came here for." Sheila E stood behind her stand. "Who are you, anyway?" Fugo steadied himself. An arm was still outstretched as if to shield Giorno. Buccellati and Abbacchio had come to back them up. The girl faced the quartet without an ounce of fear.

"Are you in any position to be asking questions?" Buccellati was the first to respond. His cool words holding just the right amount of confidence. Sheila looked them over again and shrugged.

"I've faced worse that what I'm seeing here. If you think numbers are going to intimidate me, then you're wrong. You're not the executions squad, so I don't really care whether you're here or not, I just don't want you trying to get in my way." She replied. Buccellati nodded, taking a moment to think on his response.

"If you know the executions squad, then I have to assume you're a part of Passione." Giorno felt his muscles tense slightly at Buccellati's words. They were bound to meet members of their former mafia at some point, but this was still so early. How would the others react if they were to learn the reality of their situation now? "In that case, we have no reason to get in each other's way."

"Members of Passione aren't supposed to communicate outside their own sectors." Buccellati held his breath as she spoke. "But I really don't care about that. I'm doing this for me and not for the boss. Do whatever you want, just try not to get in the way." She crossed her arms and strolled on to the next room. Buccellati's eyes followed the girl until she'd disappeared.

"Then that's what we'll do." He turned his attention to his team. "Continue what you were doing before. Just work around her."

* * *

The car screeched as it was forced to turn at an impossibly sharp angle. It's tires left long trails of black behind them. Formaggio grabbed onto the seat below him. His face was practically pressed against the glass window.

"Jesus christ come on! Melone where the hell did you go?!" he murmured while scanning the terrain as it zoomed by. How could he have disappeared so suddenly? Something black and metallic caught his eye. "Stop the car I think I see him!"

Ghiaccio complied by all but stomping on the brakes, sending the two passengers reeling forward as the car was forced to halt. Ghiaccio wasted no time in ripping out of the car. White Album had already half formed when his foot hit pavement. Formaggio and Risotto followed behind him.

Ice formed on the surface of the road in front of Ghiaccio, allowing him to skate forward toward the mangled mass of machinery in the ditch. His eyes rapidly searched the scene. Melone was far from careless on the road. There were no other drivers. The sky was clear. Something was wrong. His skates plunged into soft grass and soil on the side of the road. Melone had dragged himself away from the wreckage. The blond was grasping his hand tightly. He looked bruised and a bit bloody, but he was alive.

"Melone, What the hell happened?!" He started down the hill. The blades on his feet disappeared for better control. Melone didn't answer. He was deathly still. Risotto stopped at the edge of the pavement. The same eerie feeling of doubt crept over him.

Why was the motorcycle missing a tire?

His eyes landed on Melone. The tire had landed near him. No, not landed. It it would have to have been moved there. Risotto watched as Ghiaccio halved the distance between himself and the blond.

"Ghiaccio, don't get any closer." The Capo's voice boomed out, stopping the boy in his tracks. Melone raised his head and slowly let go of his hand, holding it up for both of them to see. His index finger was gone. There was no trace of it - no bone or blood, only a stump. Being only meters away from him, Ghiaccio had the best view. The flesh around the wound was mushy and purple. It looked as if it it might fall inward at any moment.

"Melone, what the fuck happened to your hand?! Can't you say something?" The motorcycle's tire suddenly shifted, and an arm of purple goop flung itself onto ghiaccio's leg. He drew backward in response. "Christ, what is this thing!" The half masked body of the stand revealed itself fully, ditching the tire and pursuing Ghiaccio. He froze water vapor in the air, creating a barrier between himself and the stand. The piece of Notorious B.I.G. of his leg twisted around him. It couldn't pass through the ice body of his stand, but its frantic movements could set him off balance. As he desperately tried to shake the stand off of himself, his gaze swung to Melone. He was still as stone, but his eyes were wide, and he stared directly at the other. He mouthed two words. Ghiaccio strained to make out the syllables on his lips.

"Don't move!" Melone strained to shout out to his friend. Ghiaccio froze. The blond's head suddenly dropped downward and he drew his still whole hand to his chest. Forcing those words out had caused one of the injuries he'd sustained in the crash to flair up. He began coughing violently, his whole body lurching. Notorious B.I.G. turned on a dime, heading towards Melone.

The change of trajectory set Ghiaccio into motion. White Album had already turned the ground around him into an icey plane. He pushed off with one foot, intending to skate forwards. But his view of the world turned. Instead of seeing his coughing friend, his eyes met the rapidly approaching ground. The part of the enemy stand on his legs had tripped him. He pushed himself onto his elbows. He could feel the goo climbing up his body, searching for any weak point in his White Album. Notorious B.I.G.'s body had seized Melone's hand once more.

Ghiaccio could feel his heart racing as he activated Gently Weeps. How fast would the stand eat away at him? The piece of Notorious B.I.G. was climbing up his back. He slapped a hand down on the vent behind his neck. If it got into his suit, everything would be over. He dragged himself forward on one arm. If he could just get a bit closer, maybe he could freeze the other stand to the ground. But god, could he make it in time? The purple goop was already past Melone's elbow. Ghiaccio's fingernails dug into the ice on his suit. He pulled his body forward, White Album scraping along the ground. He couldn't watch Melone die.

Something hurdled past his vision. It flew into Notorious B.I.G. then crashed into the ground. Temporarily scattered, the stand couldn't advance further on Melone's arm.

"Ghiaccio, get up." The stern voice of Risotto Nero dragged the boy back from his desperate trance. He could feel the goop trying to envelope his hand. He lowered its temperature until it was frozen solid and he could break his hand away. Ghiaccio pushed himself off the ground and skated over to his friend. Notorious B.I.G. had already reformed and was rolling away from the crumpled mass of metal that used to be Melone's bike. It was headed straight for them.

"Die you motherfucker!" He hissed. Every single molecule around the enemy stand began to slow down. Motion was reduced to nearly zero. Fractals of ice flowered around Notorious B.I.G., trapping it in a glacier of small proportions. It couldn't move, it was frozen through. He turned his attention to Melone - the piece on his arm was still writhing, slowly closing in on his shoulder. He grabbed onto his friend's wrist. Whatever was left of his arm squished under his grasp. Melone jolted and groaned in pain.

There was a moment of sobering realization as his fingers sunk further into the purple mass that had taken over his the blond's arm. Ghiaccio's face fell to a frown. Ice spread from the tips of his fingers. It climbed across Melone's arm like a ripple travelling out through water. First clear, then taking on a solid white coloration.

"God damn it Melone… How am I supposed to do something like this.." He muttered as a white haze of condensed water rose around them. Ghiaccio traced his fingers up Melone's arm, stopping when he reached the edge of the ice. He laid his friend's arm down flat against the ground, pausing for a moment to look at his face. He didn't seem conscious. That would make things easier. Ghiaccio closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath.

When he opened them, he lifted his bladed foot and crashed it down into Melone's arm. The ice cracked apart under the force of the blow, splintering into a definite chasm between his shoulder and limb. Melone didn't move. Ghiaccio had frozen it through - there'd be nothing to feel but the numb sensation above where his bicep had once been. He likely didn't even realize his arm had been severed yet. Ghiaccio let out his held breath and kicked away the chunk of ice that had formerly been a hand as he did. Risotto approached the scene silently. He was still weary of the enemy stand despite it's current position.

"It had to be done." He offered, laying a hand on Ghiaccio's shoulder. The boy had used his White Album to kill many times over in the past. He never dwelled on his work - he'd practically been raised into it. But Risotto knew that this was different. Melone was a part of their team. He was Ghiaccio's closest friend. Having to disfigure him was an impossible thought. But it was that same bond that had allowed him to act without hesitation and save the blond.

"Yeah." Ghiaccio nodded and turned toward the glacier containing Notorious B.I.G. "What do we do now? Can we kill a stand with no user?"

"It's not likely." Risotto turned back towards the road. Formaggio stood there, watching them in a stunned silence. "But you did well to immobilize it. It might be all we can do." He gestured for the redhead to come down to them. "That said, it's too dangerous to leave this thing out in the open." Formaggio slid down the hill to join them. He nearly slipped on a patch of ice as he did, but managed to make it to them unscathed. "Use your ability on that entire chunk. Make it as tiny as you can. I'll take care of things from there."

"Make the rogue stand small? Whatever you say." He summoned his Little Feet with a shrug. It floated forward carefully before scraping into the ice with its hooked claw. On cue, the glacier began to shrink down. When Formaggio had finished, it neared the size of a golf ball. Risotto squared down and reached towards it, only to draw his fingers back at the sting of the sheer cold it exuded. The Capo raised his hand in the direction of the twisted motorcycle. Pieces of metal detached themselves from the steel carnage and flew to the miniature glacier. They twisted around it, melding and folding until they had it encapsulated in a perfect sphere. Risotto picked it up and dropped it into the pocket of his jacket.

"I'll take care of this beast from here. You two get Melone to the car and do what you can for his arm." Risotto's dark eyes fell on his fallen comrade. "Ghiaccio is already thawing him, and he'll bleed out quickly if we don't tend to the wound." His men quickly got to work on their task. Though it wasn't exactly common place for the assassins to be gentle, they would do the best they could for the sake of Melone's health.

Once they had made it back in the car, Formaggio removed his jacket to fold up and place under the blond's head. Ghiaccio sat idly in the front seat for a moment, watching the two of them in the rear view mirror. The redhead felt the other's gaze land on him.

"He's breathing and stuff, so I think he'll be alright.." Formaggio offered.

"But we should still get him treatment quickly." Risotto cut in. Ghiaccio glanced at him before turning the key to start the car. If they took too long to arrive at the meeting point, the others would assume the worst. There was no time to sit around. "We have to keep pressing forward." The Capo muttered. His eyes were trained on the horizon now. "No matter what they throw at us."

"Next time we'll be ready."


	7. Frattura

Harsh blue light illuminated the night stained office. A cursor blinked at the end of a line. It's frantic flashes gave the machine an air of impatience. The man behind the screen could almost identify with it - But he loathed the thought of placing so much emotion on such an inconsequential utility. Sorbet leaned back in the chair. It's padding was a bit too worn for his liking. He'd like to replace it.

That notion put a frown on his face. The reason they were stuck with a ragged piece of equipment in the first place was because of their boss. It hadn't been a problem at first. They were assigned more men as their successes grew. Risotto had been named a Capo. They were allowed to act independently in a sense - orders traveled directly to the assassin's leader. There was no need for any upper management.

But the position they held slowly proved to be unsustainable. The problem was clear: The boss only paid them a bonus for each assassination. There was no stability. There were times when they received many jobs and life was manageable, but dry spells in which the assassins struggled to maintain their lifestyle were also frequent. Even when they were eventually given a job again, any prior research or planning had to be self financed. With each hit, they felt more and more disposable. The boss only cared that his enemies were taken out. Building talent or reliability in his men was a waste of time in his eyes.

The boss treated them no differently than unallied hitmen.

In the underworld, loyalty had a price. If he was only going to pay them when it was convenient, they had no reason to associate themselves solely with Passione. But they were reasonable, smart men. When tensions had clearly peaked, Risotto had planned a compromise. If the boss could give them their own territory to operate in, they could be assured reliable pay and he could keep the team of viciously skilled assassins. It was a fair trade, and the least they could ask for after years of service and loyalty.

But the boss denied them that courtesy. He made it clear that their position wasn't special - If anything, he thought less of them than of other units.

Text began scrawling across the screen. Sorbet leaned forward, his eyes following behind the cursor. He scribbled down notes on a pad beside the computer. On the other side of the screen, a man named Murolo typed away vital clues to the boss's identity and current location. This was the forbidden fruit of Passione. Anything related to the boss was off limits. Even accidentally stumbling upon the tiniest scrap of information could doom you to a swift and painful death. The stark expectation for all mafioso was to turn a blind eye to the concept of his existence and simply follow the orders they were given.

But Sorbet had known from the day their request had been denied that something had to change. He and Gelato both agreed on this, and they were confident that they had the means to put pressure on the boss. They excelled at researching their hits. It had become second nature, and they'd made and managed many connections throughout their work.

Risotto didn't need to know.

He and Gelato had already agreed that this was something they'd be undertaking themselves. Once they had information and a plan, they'd reveal their work to the others and set everything in motion.

* * *

"Fuck." Prosciutto paced along the gravel parking lot. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He pressed the palms of his hands into his forehead. His nails scraped down the sides of his scalp as he pulled them into shaking fists. " _No questions asked."_ Was that really the best they could do for Melone? The blond sucked in a sharp breath and reached into his jacket's pocket. It didn't take much searching for him to retrieve the case. The motion was so practiced that it had become automatic and mechanical. He barely had to think as he flicked the silver box open and swiped a cigarette from inside. He placed it on the edge of his lips and returned to case to his breast. It was so swift. His mind was racing and yet he couldn't form a clear thought.

Prosciutto pressed down on the lighter's wheel. As it rolled backward, a few sparks jumped into the air. Again. Sparks. Again. Sparks. He could feel his hand trembling. Sparks. The lighter fell to the ground.

"Do you really think that's going to help you in the end?" Illuso and his words had snuck up on the blond. He froze.

"Yeah, I do actually." Prosciutto turned to face his comrade. "I'm pretty far past strung out right now." The black haired assassin looked askance before closing his eyes and shrugging.

"It isn't really my place to say anything.." Illuso began.

"You're right, it isn't." Prosciutto pounced on his words before he finish. "I'm not sure how you're managing to be so calm. Melone's in there with some back alley quack and no left arm." He gestured sharply towards the building. Illuso sighed heavily.

"I care about Melone, you know I do. Maybe I'm still too shocked to really feel the gravity of it, but that doesn't matter. The last thing we need is anyone breaking down right now. Especially not you." he insisted.

"I'm fully aware of my role. Why the hell do you think I'm out here trying to calm down?" He bit down on the unlit cigarette. "Everything's real now. Even with all the precautions we took the boss's guards found us. We're probably being tailed right now. Any strategies we had are falling apart. Our only advantage is some girl who doesn't know anything and will probably take any chance she can get to betray us!"

"If she's such a liability then why are we still keeping her around? I haven't really heard much of her, but if what you're saying is true then we're basically just hauling around a bomb. It would be better for all of us to just get rid of her." Illuso suggested. Prosciutto considered his words while chewing on the cigarette.

"I doubt Risotto would be anywhere near up for that. He still thinks that there's something we can get out of her indirectly. She's still the best bargaining chip we can get our hands on." He opened his mouth and let the gnarled cigarette fall to the ground. "Problem is, we're probably not going to get a chance to bargain. They're just going to attack us every chance they get and pick us off one by one." He glanced toward the back alley clinic. "Or limb by limb if they have to."

"If we can't get any more information, why don't we just try to disappear instead of hunting down the boss? Maybe Sorbet and Gelato had more figured out than us, but whatever pieces of the puzzle they had they took with them. We're working off scraps here." Illuso retorted.

"It's not just about that it's-" Prosciutto sucked in a breath and began again. "Risotto and I knew Sorbet and Gelato a long time. So did the other's. Hell, even you liked them, Illuso. Don't you care about doing something about what happened?"

"I care about keeping my life." Illuso crossed his arms.

"Not all of us can disappear from this world so easily. You're choosing one hell of a time to act like you don't care. Whether you like it or not, the best way to end this is by taking out the boss. If we run like cowards, he's just going to keep hunting us down for the rest of our cursed lives." The blond's eyes were fixed on Illuso. "I know you want revenge as much as the rest of us. If you really didn't care about anyone but yourself, why would you have come out here to check up on me?" Prosciutto grinned.

"I came out here for some fresh air." Illuso insisted. In his own mind, this was the real reason he had stepped outside. Whether or not he would show it - or even admit it to himself - Illuso had come to him out of concern. This notion defeated him, and Illuso promptly took his leave.

"More fresh air for me." The blond muttered as his friend left. He crouched down to retrieve his lighter, comfortable in the realization that speaking with Illuso had in fact calmed him.

* * *

Old, rotting boards creaked softly as Sorbet squared his back against them. A soft outline of his stand floated beside him. It's tail twitched below guts of the shack were seeped in shadows. A single board had fallen from one of the windows, allowing a ray of light to fall on the dilapidated floor.

That opening was his advantage.

"Aren't you cautious." A voice teased from the opposite side of the wall. Sorbet's expression remained set in a stern frown. He was taking a dangerous chance here. This man - Cannolo Murolo - could easily be a set up. He'd insisted that the only way to give them his final lead was to meet in person.

This stranger had already provided them with vital information about the boss of Passione. He had proven indispensible to their cause without ever revealing himself completely. Prior to now he had only existed to the assassin as text on a screen. Sorbet stood strong, yet countless terrible possibilities spun through his head.

"You even brought your friend. I'm not surprised, your stands do work better in conjunction." The man's voice reached toward him once more. Taunting words crept down his spine like an icy wind. Had he already noticed Gelato? That was impossible - he was outside, hidden on the knoll that the broken window faced. Murolo couldn't possibly see him.

"We do have to take some precautions. You should understand that." In the next room, Murolo smiled at the assassin's statement.

"Of course, of course. We're living in a scary world, only a crazed fool would face it without a care." he mused. There was a short silence. The tension that hung in the air was as thick as the wall that separated the two men. Murolo had never offered a reason for his betrayal. He'd never cited a grievance that had turned him against Passione's boss. Of course this had raised red flags for Sorbet and Gelato. They'd often discussed their uncertainties about exchanges with such a source.

But they had little choice. Information regarding the Don of Passione was sparse, and those willing to share what they knew were few and far between.

It was possible that Murolo was quite literally their only hope.

"So what bombshell do you have for us?" Sorbet's voice cut through the darkness. For these reasons, the pair chose to trust him - But should he try to attack, they'd be ready.

For a moment Sorbet felt his confidence in that idea falter. Murolo had already illustrated to him that he was aware of their tag team style. Could he be familiar with their stands? The assassin's eyes slid to the window. Gelato's stand would lose it's power over a target's subconscious if they understood its ability. Maybe this gamble was too risky.

"Like I said before, we'll need to meet if you want it." Murolo's response pulled Sorbet from his thoughts. "I don't think that's so much to ask. The doorway is just a few feet to your left. Just come into this room with me." Was this a game to him? No assassin focused on eliminating their target would utter such a suspicious line. It was just too provocative to sound sincere. Sorbet could practically hear the other's smile carried on his words. The assassin ground his teeth together. If Murolo was truly an ally to them, why would he choose to express his message in such a way?

Sorbet was acutely aware of each second ticking by. Had he stayed silent for too long? Every moment weighed on his shoulders as his ambitions struggled against the doubts he so sensibly held. Murolo needn't even remind him that this could be his only chance at gaining an upper hand.

The assassin stepped away from the wall and turned toward the doorway that connected the two rooms. His resolve was unwavering. As he strode forward his hand landed on the top of the gun in his belt. Bleed Like Me - his stand - fell in line. An outline of sheer darkness stood waiting for him. Never before had a room been so imposing. Still, he continued on.

Just before he could cross into the next room, another figure slid out from behind the wall. The fragmented light flowing in provided him the ability to make out a single eye adorned with ostentatious make up. It seemed to simultaneously fit and contrast the broadly rimmed hat Murolo wore. Such a paradox would strike the man as hilarious had the situation not been so grave. Sorbet's body tensed and he drew in a breath. He was waiting, analyzing the other's every move.

"You're not used to being the one getting teased, are you?" Sorbet shifted his weight back slightly. Before he could respond, Murolo spoke again. "I already knew as much. It's been fun, but I'll cut the shenanigans just for you." He thrust a manila envelope toward the assassin. Sorbet's eyes switched from the informant to the package. He slowly raised his hand to grasp it, staying cautious as he did.

"What's so important that it couldn't be sent digitally?" Sorbet questioned. His fingers fell on the parcel's soft paper shell.

"Well, some leads you just have to see to believe. You'll thank me later - Actually it would benefit us both not to see each other again, so how about you just thank me now?" He grinned. Sorbet hesitated. The phrase "Thank you" wasn't so often used in the realm of an assassin.

"Thank you. We'll use this information to the best of our ability. I'll ensure that it can't be traced back to you." Despite this, Sorbet could shift into a formal tone at a moment's notice. Murolo nodded, apparently satisfied with his work. He gave a small wave before fading back into the darkness of the building.

Murolo watched as the assassin slipped from the walls of the shack and beyond what could be seen from the cracks covering the window. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a deck of cards.

"We are in for quite a treat, aren't we?" He began lazily shuffling. A few of the cards flew from the deck. They grew limbs and began clinging to his jacket. "That information is going to get someone killed - Could be them, could be the boss." As he spoke, he looked down at the soldiers sticking to him. "Either way, it'll be fun to watch."

* * *

"Hey. Heeeey. Can you hear me?" Formaggio waved his hand in front of Melone's face. The blond's eyes lazily followed his actions. The rest of his face was vacant. Formaggio turned away and crossed his arms. "I think he's broken." The redhead announced this with an air of legitimate concern.

"He's not broken, you idiot." Illuso glanced at the bandaged stump stemming from Melone's left shoulder. "Well.." He looked away, cutting off any more words before they could form. "It's probably just the drugs wearing off. Who knows what kind of weird stuff this place used." Illuso was sick of the clinic by now. It felt cluttered and reeked of amateurism. It kind of reeked in general too. For the last 2 hours he'd found little escape from the ever present scent of formaldehyde. The need to duck out for fresh air once more was already creeping up on him. "Formaggio, can you keep an eye on Melone for awhile? I need to go back outside."

"Again? It's only been like ten minutes since you were last out there. What's your deal?" He didn't face Illuso as he spoke. The redhead was squatted down near Melone again, inspecting the "Doctor's" work.

"My deal is that it smells like death in here! It's a mystery how it isn't affecting you." Illuso retorted.

"Oh no, death! Not sure if you forgot, but death is kind of our job." Formaggio smirked to himself. Illuso's common bouts of gloom and dread weren't much fun on their own, but they did make him a prime target for some playful ridicule.

"Well - Yes, but our work doesn't have the stench of chemicals attached to it." He stumbled over his words slightly. Somewhere deep down Illuso could tell that he was falling for the other's bait yet again, but he couldn't stop himself.

"It's just a scent, get over it. You can handle bludgeoning people to death, but god forbid you have to smell something nasty. You poor dainty flower!" It was always so easy with Illuso. Formaggio didn't even need to hide his intentions. Even if the other knew what he was doing, he'd feed into the redhead's bullying every time.

"I'm just giving myself some comfort. I've survived worse smelling things - Like your room, for example." Illuso scowled as he uttered his half baked comeback. Nothing could ever be more satisfying to Formaggio than such reactions. But his joy was interrupted as Illuso hesitated at the door.

"Are you gonna go check to see if Prosciutto is still shitting himself out there?" Formaggio cocked his head.

"On second thought, maybe it's better being stuck in here with you and the essence of death." The assassin's pride hadn't recovered from his last trip outdoors. He straightened up. Reflecting on his conversation with Prosciutto had brought an issue to the forefront of his mind. "Hey. I need to ask you something."

"Huh?" The redhead was caught off guard by Illuso's sudden shift in tone. "What is it?"

"What do you think of Trish?" His voice had fallen soft, perhaps out of fear that any of the other's might hear him.

"Trish? -Oh, right, that's her name. What d'you mean what do I think of her?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you think she's becoming dead weight?"

"Eh, maybe. If Risotto wants to keep her around, then that's fine with me. I don't really care that much." Formaggio shrugged. Illuso nodded slowly in acknowledgment of his words.

"I see." He drummed his fingers against the wall. It was just like Formaggio to react to this kind of situation in a relaxed manner. But Illuso was still bugged by his detached view of it all. He should be taking each decision seriously instead of entrusting others to lead him down the best path.

But he couldn't lie, Risotto had always pointed them in the right direction.

In the past their leader had been working within his area of expertise. Now they were in new territory. Illuso wanted to keep faith in Risotto's guidance, but the stakes were too high for him to just blindly accept decisions. The job of an assassin was always a matter of life and death. Those same stakes had been raised and reversed on them - they were the prey now.

The perpetual fear of being caught and torn to pieces stalked him. It was unbearable. There had always been danger in his line of work, sure, but this was different. Illuso was accustomed to having a sense of control. He was the one that they should be afraid of. Experiencing the opposite role felt wrong. The atmosphere it inspired was as oppressive as the stench that filled the clinic. He only wished he could breath deeply to alleviate a piece of the constant ball of anxiety that sat in his stomach.

"I'm going to talk to Risotto." Illuso redirected himself. He'd have to delve further into the building to find the Capo. After Melone had been treated, Risotto had stayed in the operating room to settle things. Discrete and illegal procedures were pricey, and silence didn't come cheap. But even so, in the event that any of Passione came here looking for information it wouldn't matter how much they paid. The boss's men were bound to have more funds than them, and back alley doctor's weren't exactly famous for their honor.

"We can speak right here." Risotto's baritone voice rang out from the hallway behind Illuso. "What was your concern?"

The Capo's sudden appearance nearly startled Illuso. He truly was the model assassin; quiet, precise, deadly. His mere presence inspired fear - and how couldn't it? Anyone's first look at his dark eyes would freeze their blood. Illuso and the rest of his men had grown used to him over the years, but he never lost his ability to intimidate.

"I think maybe we might want to rethink our strategy." Illuso began. But growing to know Risotto Nero was synonymous to learning of his many respectable traits. It was this sense of respect that inspired a spark of shame - He was questioning his leader's decision. "Keeping Trish around might end up doing us more harm than good. She doesn't know anything and she's not on our side."

"She's not on their side either." Risotto answered. He continued walking as he spoke. Illuso was momentarily stunned by this answer - it wasn't so shocking as it was unexpected.

"What does that have to do with whether or not she's dragging us down?" The assassin's frustration had begun to bleed into his voice.

"Be more observant." The cutting response didn't help to put him at ease. Illuso crossed his arms. With a free hand he clutched the material of his sleeve tightly. This wasn't a place to lose control. Even if Risotto's attention didn't rest fully on him, the Capo would notice if he was being to aggressive. The last thing he wanted to do was get on his leader's bad side in an already stressful situation. "There's more to her than you think. Trish is already noticing things a normal human wouldn't." His hand lay on the doorknob as he finished his sentence. "The others should be ready to leave by now. Both of you help get Melone out to the car." It was clear that he wouldn't linger on the subject, so the two assassins got to work lifting their friend immediately. Risotto waited on standby, holding the door open for them. As he worked, Illuso parsed through the man's words.

"Hey, wasn't Ghiaccio in there with you?" Formaggio looked back towards the hallway as he slung Melone's arm around his shoulders.

"Yes, I asked him to wrap things up with the doctor. He'll be out soon." Risotto followed the others out as they gently loaded Melone into the red convertible. He wasted no time in getting his men settled and driving away. Prosciutto and Pesci would wait for Ghiaccio to return. Not long after the Capo had left, the young assassin emerged from the building.

White Album melted off of Ghiaccio, it's drips being quickly absorbed into the gravel as he approached the car. His stand worked exceptionally well for making clean kills. It only took a few seconds of short range contact. A hand on their head. The brain was surrounded by fluid. A human couldn't recover from that kind of shock.

He gave little thought to what he'd done - It had become normal by now. This time it was a vital action. Yes, the doctor had helped Melone, but he wasn't someone with loyalties. They couldn't leave any clues. The boss's men had already tracked them down once. It was bound to happen again, but they needed more time to recover and strategize.

"Did Risotto seriously take my car?" He threw open the passenger door of the black BMW.

"He wanted to get moving as quickly as possible and look after Melone. It's a long way to Venice." Prosciutto set the car in drive and pulled out of the lot. Pesci and Trish were seated behind him. Ghiaccio turned his head to get a better look. Pesci gave him a small smile. Trish stared pointedly out the window.

"This is bound to be a fun trip." The young assassin grumbled. "He better not get any scratches on it." Prosciutto rolled his eyes.

"You should be a bit more worried about their safety. That was a pretty close call from what I've heard." The blond nagged.

"I know. I was there." Ghiaccio clicked open the glove compartment. "You better have some good music at least.."

The assassins fell into their respective tasks - Prosciutto driving, Ghiaccio sorting through CDs and Pesci keeping to himself in the back. Trish continued to leer out the window. With their focus being on the trip ahead of them, none of the men wanted to linger. Only her eyes met with those of the stranger. Sheila stared back at her from where she hid behind the corner of the building. Her gaze was standoffish, almost daring Trish to pipe up.

As she sat silent in the back seat she could see something looming over the shoulder of the stranger. The faintest whisper of a monstrous figure stood behind her. She sight sent a cold rush through Trish's blood, but it wasn't the oddest phenomenon she'd noticed in the days she'd spent with the assassins.

* * *

Sorbet had exited the shack quickly. There was no need for him to be close to their informant for an extended amount of time.

"What was that?! Why would you go along with such a risky demand?!" Gelato hissed. Sorbet shut his eyes and let out a heavy breath. The two had retreated a distance, taking cover in a small grove in case anyone had been sent after them.

"If it had been a trap we'd be doomed anyway. This was our only chance at definitive information. I had to take that risk." Anger quickly faded from his partner's expression.

"You only take risks after you've properly weighed the situation, I'll give you that much." His gaze shifted from Sorbet to the packet he held. "Open it up, I'm dying to see what this grand clue is."

"Alright, alright." Sorbet snaked his arm around the other's waist. His his free hand, he broke the envelopes seal and delicately began pulling out the enclosed documents. The first thing that greeted them was a photograph of a pink haired girl. Beyond it lay a thick report.

"She can't be more than 15, if Murolo is trying to tell us that this is the boss…" Gelato's words became a murmur, quieted by his partner's stark expression. Sorbet had already begun reading through the rest of the enclosed information.

"That isn't the boss. That's his daughter."


	8. La Guerra a Venezia - Part 1

Ghiaccio stared out at Ponte della Libertà. He leaned over the stone barrier that cut between the pavement and the sea below. Something about the sight of it made him uneasy. Prosciutto's black BMW was the only car parked in the lot. He could smell the blond's cigarette burning down wind of him. At least the gentle ocean breeze provided him with some relief. It delicately drifted through his blue pin curls as if begging him to give up some of the stress he held. The docks to the left of them slowly began to wake. Mariners were used to working in the early morning darkness.

"We're set to meet Risotto and the other's at five." Prosciutto puffed out a jet of smoke and rolled back his sleeve. His golden watch shone a dull reflection of the embers at the end of his cigarette. "So we've got about 30 minutes."

"Then why are we waiting around? Being split up like this puts us in more danger." Ghiaccio rested his chin on his hand. The little sleep he'd gotten in the car clearly hadn't been enough for him.

"I was driving for upwards of five hours straight through the middle of the night. I need a break. We're taking one." Prosciutto closed his eyes. These weren't the worst hours he'd ever pulled, but they were still strenuous.

A sharp cry of pain tore him from his moment of peace. In an instant he was ready for action, but the sight he found prompted him to relax into mere annoyance. Trish sat doubled over, gripping her forearm. The car door had been pushed open and her legs were swung out to the side. Through the rear windshield of the car he could see Pesci already handling the situation. He controlled Beach Boy with ease - despite the cramped space.

"That's my Fratellino, always one step ahead!" Prosciutto proclaimed with pride. "You should know by now that trying to run off isn't going to work."

"I wasn't trying to run, I just wanted some fresh air." Her voice was strained. Trish's attention remained on the phantom fish hook burrowed deep in her wrist. "I don't know how you do this type of stuff or how to fight it, but I've been trapped in a car all night too. I just wanted to stretch a bit." The resigned whisper she spoke in conveyed utter sincerity. Prosciutto raised an eyebrow and looked to Ghiaccio. Even if this was an attempt at rebellion, their stands were more than enough to handle her.

"I guess that's fine. Go ahead and let her go Pesci." The bulky assassin complied, releasing  
Trish from the effects of his stand. "Keep in mind that if you try anything you won't be allowed any more special privileges in the future." Prosciutto was cautious. This was new territory for all of them; Their line of work didn't involve holding captives. Well, Formaggio was known to bring home a shrunken target now and then, but they never lasted long when pitted against his pets. But this situation was indubitably different.

Trish lifted herself from the car seat while rubbing her hand. The hook had left no marks in her skin, but an echo of pain was still present. She feared that perhaps it had torn the muscle and veins within her arm. But those minor injuries weren't her biggest problems. Her eyes landed on the blond first, then the blue haired assassin. She'd spoken with both of them in the past. Neither struck her as very pleasant people. She was standing outside the car now, but where should she go? The two men seemed equally puzzled - both watched her. Their gazes weren't so hostile as they were curious. Despite being stuck together for the last week, they didn't know her and she didn't know them. She hesitated a moment before approaching the stone barrier on Ghiaccio's right. She had no desire to stand between the two of them, but straying too far would cause suspicion.

"So, uh.." Ghiaccio began. He wasn't even sure who he was addressing. Trish kept her eyes on the ocean. "Miles Davis?" His words hung in the air. The disjointed, awkward sentence was simultaneously an attempt to alleviate the strange atmosphere of the situation and begin a conversation. It seemed to be doing neither.

"I'm definitely a fan of his work." Prosciutto spoke up. "Though you must have noticed that a long time ago. I'm glad you chose to play him." There was another stretch of silence. The two of them had never had a very friendly bond. By no means did they hate each other, but they didn't exactly pal around either. Still, the blond was making an effort and Ghiaccio appreciated it.

"Honestly I don't know how you could listen to jazz for hours in the middle of the night and not fall asleep." Trish's comment came as a surprise to both of the assassins - The nonchalance of her tone was even more unforeseen. Outwardly she seemed completely calm and self assured.

But beyond what the men could see, she was only inches from panicking. Leaving the car had been a brave move itself, but speaking casually with her captors was even more so. Trish feared the clamor of her heart crashing against her chest might give away how she truly felt. She'd been emboldened to this point by the brief conversations she'd shared with Risotto Nero. He treated her like a human being more than any of the others. Strangely enough, she found herself beginning to trust him.

The realization scared her. What was that thing they called it? Stockholm syndrome? Trish loathed the thought of falling victim to some sort of psychosis based on a few decent actions. They were still her enemies. They hadn't harmed her, but they had plucked her from the life she had.

Or at least what was left of it.

No, that wasn't true. It had been the others from Passione that had taken her from her home first. They'd acted like they were businessmen. They'd explained things slowly and professionally while forcing her to come with them before she even knew what was happening. Orders from the boss - her father. She hadn't had a father until that day. She didn't want one.

"If you know his work well enough it becomes more than just songs." Prosciutto was slow to respond, still recovering from the initial surprise. "All music is like that. Even within a single piece there's the build of anticipation towards one chorus or chord." Trish nodded at his explanation. She was too concerned with her own thoughts to fully listen to what he was saying.

"Everybody already knows that, Prosciutto." Ghiaccio criticized.

"I'm just putting it into words." The blond retorted. "There's an art to that, you know. If you use more than the simplest and crudest words, you can give your sentences life and poetry." The younger assassin only rolled his eyes in response. For a brief moment Trish had disappeared from their minds. She was allowed a few fleeting seconds of observation.

They almost seemed like normal people.

"Anyway," Prosciutto checked his watch. "We need to get going."

* * *

The gas station they'd stopped to rest at was cramped and dusty. It's rows of packaged food and magazines threatened to squish Narancia and Mista as they wandered through the aisles. Abbacchio and Bruno were conferencing about something outside near the van.

"Dude, come over here! You gotta check this out!" Narancia hollered from where he had crouched in front of a display. Mista drew closer, careful to dodge a package of peanuts that jut out from it's shelf. "Check this chick out!" the boy had somehow managed to find the most questionable magazine in the building with a brief scan of the shelves.

"Oh, damn!" Mista snatched the magazine from his comrade, who seemed less than thrilled to have his find stolen.

"Hey, you can't just take it from me! I had it first!" He protested.

"You're too young to be reading stuff like this anyway!" Mista retorted, his eyes never leaving the centerfold.

"That doesn't even make sense, there aren't words on there!" Narancia grabbed at the magazine, which was swiftly raised into the air by Mista. "Plus I'm nearly as old as you!"

"Yeah, but you're not 18 yet. The cashier wouldn't even let you buy this." Mista turned towards the other side of the store. "Hey Giorno, come look at this!" The blond lifted his head toward them in response to the call. He'd heard their commotion from afar, but had little interest in shenanigans.

"Yeah he would, I'd just have to convince him a little!" The boy balled his fist and thrust it forward in a stabbing motion.

"The cashier can probably hear you from here." Giorno informed as he stepped toward them. His eyes slid to the man behind the counter who seemed utterly detached from their racket.

"So? That means he'll just know who to respect." Narancia shrugged.

"Hey, that's not important - Giorno, check out the kinda stuff they got here!" He held the magazine open the the blond, who after a brief inspection respectfully averted his eyes.

"Whaaaat? Mista, Giorno is two whole years younger than me!" Narancia griped.

"Does it really matter? We're not going to buy it." The blond offered. He'd slowly gotten used to the antics of the younger gang members as his time in Passione stretched on. He almost welcomed it at this point. Observing his comrades minor squabbles served as an enjoyable distraction from the bleak reality they all faced. They hadn't heard anything from their higher ups since Trish was taken from them, and they weren't exactly anticipating the arrival of any news - It would be bad. That was assured. Giorno frowned. The boss was likely sorting out the mess they had caused before coming for their necks.

"Speak for yourse-" Mista was cut off by the sudden chime of the door alarm. Fugo stared at them, his face woven into an expression of stress and urgency.

"Bruno needs all of you out here. Now." Fugo disappeared from the doorway seconds after speaking. The boys wasted no time in dropping the magazine and rushing to the door. Bruno and Abbachio were still near the van they'd stolen, but someone else had joined them. Giorno recognized her instantly. The flowing clothes, the long braids. They'd encountered her the previous day.

Sheila E was standoffish as ever as they approached. Her arms were folded, and she studied them as if looking for any weakness. Narancia's skin crawled as her eyes scoured him, he couldn't hide it. This seemed to please her. But Giorno was a different case. He met her glare and progressed steadily towards her. Even upon arrival he was unrelenting. At last Sheila looked away from him to address Bruno.

"Tell them and we can get going." Her tone was dominant, overconfidence apparent. Bruno wasn't a fan of it, but he wouldn't fight her on it. Not now.

"I'm sure you all remember Sheila E.." The uneasy air snuffed out any friendliness in the introduction. "She's provided us with some invaluable information. In return, we're going to take her with us to Venice."

"Venice?" The question fell out of Mista's mouth. The turn of events made little sense to him. By now anyone could have figured out that Bruno was trying to avoid interactions with Passione, so why team up with this girl?

"Yes, that's where the assassination team was headed." Bruno explained.

"Hey, wait, how would she even know that? This is really shady Buccellati!" Narancia was on guard. He'd heard about the run in with this girl and he didn't like her one bit.

"I tracked them for awhile and eventually followed them to a clinic where they stopped. My stand helps with gathering intelligence." She glared at Narancia. "But don't get the wrong idea, it could easily tear a person limb from limb too."

"There's no need for anyone to be hostile here." Bruno stressed, his patience already beginning to wear. "We're both going to help each other. Sheila has unfinished business with those assassins, just like us. Even if there _was_ anything to worry about, I'm sure we're more than capable of holding our own. Don't you agree, Narancia?" The boy looked to his leader and nodded hesitantly. His trust for Bruno outweighed his suspicion of this wanderer.

"No point in wasting time then." Sheila broke out of the conversation. Before anyone could even question her, she'd pulled one of the van's doors open and climbed inside. After a moment she popped her head out the window to address Bruno once more. "When are we leaving?"

The men shared a collective moment of stunned silence. This ally - if she could be called that - was utterly incomprehensible and more than a bit prickly. But there was work to be done. Bruno gestured for his men to follow her lead.

"I am NOT sitting by her." Narancia grumbled.

* * *

"I don't really get it, but whatever." Formaggio shrugged. Yellow lamp light washed over him as he slumped further down into the chair. It wasn't all that comfortable, but it would work for a bit. He was happy to have been one of the first to arrive and claim a spot. The other assassins were sprinkled around the space; Some sat on the beds, others leaned against walls. The hotel room was cramped when inhabited by eight people. "We're clearly not tourists. We're as Italian as they come!" He bousted.

"It's not about looking the part - That's impossible for us." Risotto sighed. "It's about the location and our actions. Don't stand out. Blend in with crowds. We need to lay low for awhile." He peeked out at the city from behind the curtains. The sun had begun its slow climb over the horizon. Orange and violet bands creeped into the sky above it, slowly pushing away the cool blanket of night.

"If I may interject.." Melone spoke up from where he laid in one of the two beds. His voice was slow. "How is this any safer than the other places we've tried to hide?"

"It's not, but we don't have many options. I still expect you all to be cautious." Risotto's eyes didn't meet the blond's. The Capo had seen enough of his pain the previous day. "If you feel threatened don't hesitate to use deadly force." That much was clear among the assassins. There was no margin for formality here. Their lives were on the line and they would need to defend themselves without a second thought.

But the order didn't sit well with Trish. It may not have been meant for her, but she was around the people who would be following it. Aside from the incident involving Giorno, she hadn't had to see the brutality these people were capable of. For a few brief hours, she'd felt a strange lack of discomfort around them. It was almost like she'd adjusted to fit a new normality. But Risotto's words served as a stark reminder of who these men really were.

"We'll be working out of a few of the rooms along this hallway for the time being." Prosciutto added in. "But there's no need to sequester yourselves in this hotel the whole time - As long as you keep in frequent contact with me and Risotto." The blond stretched his neck and yawned before tossing a keycard to Pesci. "Fratellino, you're with me. I'm going to take a well-deserved nap, you all settle in and do whatever. Just stay smart and on your toes."

"I think maybe I'm going to stay inside too." Pesci muttered, jumping to follow behind Prosciutto as he left the room.

"Well that's boring. I'm gonna go out for awhile." Formaggio stood up and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Anybody else wanna come with?"

"You're not tired?" Ghiaccio cocked an eyebrow.

"Nah, I slept the whole way here. Cars aren't really a problem for me, you know?" The redhead strode toward the door.

"It's not about the car, shouldn't you have been helping Melone?" The boy was growing agitated.

"Huh?" For a moment Melone's injuries had slipped his mind. "Eh, maybe, but Melone's fine, and he got here right?"

"But he-" Ghiaccio began, his volume growing.

"I watched Melone. Formaggio was out in 5 minutes but I stayed awake." Illuso cut in before the others could progress into a fight.

"I was fine. I'm already patched up and I'll be back in the action in a day or two." Melone nodded. It was currently easier to stay out of conversations and rest, but Ghiaccio blowing a fuse now would be a hassle for everyone. He wiggles his bandaged shoulder slightly as a sign of affirmation to his friend.

"Well, fine I guess." Ghiaccio had been successfully cooled down. "I'll come out exploring with you then." The two moved out the door.

"I might as well get to my own room then." Melone scooted to the edge of the bed and pushed himself up with his single arm. "Illuso, can you help me carry some stuff?" The other assassin nodded in response. The two grabbed the few valuables Melone and Ghiaccio had brought and headed from the door across the hall.

Risotto had kept his place near the window, his eyes still tracing the streets of Venice. Each path was overshadowed by a towering building. Even through his vigilant duty, the beauty of the sight didn't escape him. Trish had remained in place too, but now she felt as if she had missed some cue. She looked from the door to the Capo.

"Uh, don't think I'm into this prisoner situation or anything, but what am I supposed to do?" She questioned.

"You'll be staying in this room with me. I apologize, I know it's improper but I hope you can at least be content with having your own space." Finally dragging his eyes from the window, he lifted his hand. A crack appeared in the wall between the two beds. A low creak followed it as the wall burst open and one of the metal supports inside twisted forward until it was horizontal to the ground. "This may take a moment, please be patient." The shower rod and curtain flew from the bathroom, followed by other bits of metal. The desk chair began falling apart as its assets were scavenged from it. Each piece began melting together and forming into a long rod that curved around the bed until it met with the other wall.

Trish had little concern with how long this would take - She was too busy watching in utter shock at the supernatural feat unfolding before her eyes. Even if she had wanted to say something, her voice had been reduced to a tiny squeak. The handles from the dresser broke from their bases and folded into rings. Risotto turned his attention to his own bed. The rings pierced into the edges of the sheets that peeked out from the side and drew them to be suspended from the bar. Combined with the shower curtain, they created a barrier between Trish's bed and the rest of the room.

"Will that suffice?" The Capo turned his tired eyes to Trish. She was speechless, still staring at the newly constructed privacy curtain. She was awestruck, horror and amazement gripped her so strongly that she feared she might be choked. It took Risotto a moment to understand her reaction - she was an outsider to the world of Passione, after all.

"That.. That was.." Trish could barely form the words necessary to describe her trance. "Giorno - I saw what you did to him but.." She swallowed. "This is on a whole different level."

"I hope I didn't startle you too badly. It's called Metallica." He spoke cooley. There was no need to stress her out further. "I know you've noticed our other abilities in the past. They're called stands."

"Stands?" Trish was slowly settling from the previous sight. "Like the fish hook and the ice? They must be 'stands' too, right?"

"Yes. Pesci's and Ghiaccio's specifically." Risotto informed.

"They can't be the only ones, that day, when you all kidnapped me," Her eyes landed on construct, a brave spark had been lit. "That was the work of stands too, wasn't it?" Risotto nodded silently. Trish took a step away from the wall. The curtains were mere feet from her. She lifted her hand, slowly moving forward and grabbing the soft sheets. "Are you the only ones?"

"No. All members of Passione possess stand abilities." He answered.

"Wait, the mafia has superpowers?" She blurted and turned to him. "Like, all of them?" Risotto shook his head.

"Only your father's."

"He's not my father." Trish snapped. The Capo met her eyes with his own dark sclera. His stern face was enough to make her regret the previous outburst.

"Is that how you feel?" His words weren't scornful, they were inquisitive and sincere - a far cry from the disdain she had perceived. He waited as the girl looked down, searching for the right response.

"Yes. I believe that wholeheartedly. He didn't raise me, my mother did. He never helped or put anything good in my life. Only trouble." Her eyes stayed on the floor. "He abandoned her to raise a child alone - and don't try to say he didn't know, I've heard that enough. That doesn't make it any better."

"You were going to meet him. Didn't you want that?" Risotto folded his hands in his lap.

"What? Of course not!" Her head jerked upwards. "I basically got kidnapped twice! Do you think they would have listened to me? I never wanted to be involved with any of this! But I never had a choice. I just got tossed around. First it was social workers, then some strange mafioso, then Bruno, and now you!"

"You can resent us." The words cut by her so quickly that she almost missed them.

"What?" The girl was seized from her rage.

"You can resent us. You have every right to. I know what we're doing is wrong. I'm sorry that you're involved." Risotto closed his eyes. This was a matter that had weighed on him for some time. Cold, distant murder was one thing. Taking a child from their home, fracturing their life, and making them live in fear was another.

"If you know it's wrong then why are you doing it?" Her voice had grown softer. The anger that had flushed out of her left a void that needed something to fill it. The grief she'd often denied herself volunteered.

"We are assassins. We've always known our work is wrong. It's something you learn to bury, to be professional. Even now we're criminals in the eyes of criminals. Traitors sentenced to death." He paused. "But it's not just for us. It's for them too."

"Them? The people you worked for?" Trish questioned.

"No. For our friends." Risotto opened his eyes again, but he failed to meet her gaze. Instead his heavy glare centered on his shoes. "Their names were Sorbet and Gelato. Your fath-" He stopped himself. "The boss did something terrible to them. The details are unbefitting of a young lady, so I'll spare them. But no one should ever have to see their family like that. No one should be given such scarce, terrible clues to a loved one's fate."

"They were your brothers?" She grasped at his words like pieces of a puzzle, desperately trying to fit together the narrative.

"Not by blood, but they were my brothers all the same." He sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"We're undeserving of your sympathy." He insisted. "We've brought evil into your life. You're pitying the thing you should hate. Don't do that to yourself."

"I'll make that decision myself." After her words silence filled the space between them. Trish returned to her study of the new construction. She knew that he was right, that she shouldn't feel bad for them. She should consider the deaths of Sorbet and Gelato just. These people were murderous lowlives and they didn't deserve to be happy, right?

She frowned. Why couldn't she just believe that? She didn't like this people. Prosciutto was unpleasant, Ghiaccio was an aggressive mess, and the others came off like shady thugs. She wouldn't really use the term "favorite" to describe Risotto, but at least he had showed her some decency.

There was a knock at the door, followed by the blonde poking his head in.

"Hey, I ordered some room service, it should be here in-" He turned back towards the hallway. "Nevermind, it's here." Bright orange swathes of hair curled out from behind the page's black headband. The wheeled cart in front of him carried a variety of packed in dishes.

As Prosciutto's gaze landed on him, the blond couldn't help but notice his unnerving features. Something about him just wasn't right. The stranger looked back at him silently, averting his eyes every few seconds. He also hated the way Prosciutto was inspecting him. He needed to leave before anyone grew suspicious.

"Wait, something's not right here." Prosciutto took a step toward the page. His blood froze and his eyes leapt to the water bottles on the cart in front of him. There were still ways out of this situation. The blond reached toward him. He was about to crack. This plan was failing. Prosciutto's hand touched his neck. "Maybe it's not my business but I would expect staff in a professional hotel to take a bit more pride in their appearance." He grumbled while adjusting the collar of the stolen uniform. "You look like you threw this on in a hurry. I'll forgive that if you listen to some advice: If you want to be someone, you have to look the part." The assassin lightly finger combed the stranger's hair into a more formal position.

"Thank you?" The faux page was aghast. The two words were all he could manage as the adrenaline drained from his veins. Only seconds ago he'd thought he was brushing death at the hands of these traitors. Back to business. He shifted the cart against the wall. "I'll leave this here." He turned rigidly into his crawl of a retreat.

Prosciutto watched him for a minute before grabbing some of the dishes and bringing them into the hotel room. He took a moment to marvel at Risotto's recent work before placing the food on the desk. Trish had retreated behind the curtains soon after the blond arrived.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I just got a variety of stuff - Of course I'm gonna bring some of it over for Pesci though." Prosciutto popped the lid off of a salad bowl and plunged his fork in.

"Thank you. I'm glad I have you by my side, Proscuitto." Risotto gave him a tired smile.

"Oh come on, you don't have to thank me for getting food." The blond deflected - admittedly, the Capo's sudden praise flustered him a little. He focused on his salad, bringing the first bite to his mouth. "Weird, this dish is a little fishy." He churned through the greens with his fork. The unexpected taste provided a perfect topic to flee to.

"Venice is a city of the ocean, after all." The capo reached for one of the containers of food.

"I guess so." Prosciutto shrugged and returned the lid to his dish.

* * *

"You know we're not _actually_ on vacation." Ghiaccio grumbled, popping a fritole into his mouth. Formaggio stood ahead of him carrying a stuffed bag as they walked along one of the larger canals.

"Well yeah, of course not. But having some fun while we're here ain't a crime. Besides, you're snacking too." On the redhead's observation, Ghiaccio's hand froze above the bag he was plucking pastries from.

"Hey, I got one thing!" The young assassin pointed to the other's spoils. "You're just wasting money."

"Oh come on Ghiaccio! There's nothing but food places around here anyway. We're not gonna get anything out of knick-knacks or tourist hot spots, so why not enjoy the view with some grub?" He leaned back against the corner of a building. "See, this cafe here has plenty of lovely patio seats. The weather is just perfect for a nice brunch and-" His sentence dropped off and his eyes widened. Before Ghiaccio had a chance to question the sudden change, Formaggio dropped his bag and locked his arms around the boy's waist. The redhead practically threw him into the adjacent alleyway.

"What the hell do you thi-" The younger assassin's crescendo was silenced by the hand the redhead smacked over his mouth. Little Feet materialized beside him. Without hesitation it swiftly plunged its claw into Ghiaccio's hand. The action earned a muffled cry of rage from the boy.

"Hey, you need to be quiet!" He hissed, peeking around the corner swiftly. "We're in trouble, those people out there-" Formaggio jolted and his hand shot away from the other's mouth. "Did you just lick me?! Dude, what the hell!"

"You're asking me that? You just attacked me, what are you doing?!" The boy roared. His size had already begun decreasing.

"I didn't attack you, I'm saving you before those Passione kids notice us!" Formaggio had managed to get a handle on his volume again. "They're eating over there, if they had seen you we'd be toast!"

"The one's who were guarding Trish? Why are they here?!" His demeanor had changed with realization of the situation, but anger still pulsed through him. He had shrunk to half his original height - this fact only served to further aggravate him. "Wait, why are you shrinking me? They're more likely to recognize you, you idiot!" Formaggio froze, mulling over the statement.

"Good point." Little Feet activated again, this time stabbing it's own master. "Now we'll both be in stealth mode."

"Stealth mode?! This is what you think stealth mode is?" Thankfully, Ghiaccio's small stature helped to quiet his voice.

"Yeah, this way we can slip past them. If we follow that canal behind them, we'll be back at the hotel in no time." Formaggio shrugged. He had little patience for the minute or two his stand's shrinking process took. At least growth was more instantaneous.

"What? Why would we go past them? That's too dangerous - and how do you know that's the right road?! You're just going to get us lost or squished!" Ghiaccio fumed. He stood only a few inches tall now. He'd never been one of Little Feet's victims before, and the situation was far from comfortable. Everything around them was dizzyingly tall.

"Dude, 've got this. Which one of us is going to be better at navigating while tiny?" Formaggio grinned. The younger assassin was denied time to retort before his comrade darted around the corner.

"Don't just run off, we need a plan!" Ghiaccio found himself sprinting as well. Being tiny was bad enough, but losing his guide through this gigantic world would be a disaster.

"I have a plan! Step one is keeping up!" Formaggio shouted back at him before turning on a dime to weave through the table legs that cluttered the patio. Ghiaccio followed behind him, his attention split between the ginger and the passione members that towered above them.

Formaggio stopped and crouched behind a chair leg. It sprouted above them like an ancient oak tree of paint and steel. Ghiaccio caught up and stood next to his friend, taking the pause to catch his breathe and let White Album materialize it's skates on his feet.

"Step two is finding the perfect moment to move." He pointed to the corner of the cafe. "We won't have any cover beyond here, so we have to make sure they don't see us." He paused, observing the gangsters seated beyond them. "They've got six sets of eyes, and we have to avoid all of them." Ghiaccio peered from behind their cover.

"Seven." He corrected as his eyes landed on the girl partially hidden by the man in a white speckled suit. "Either our intel didn't know about her before, or they got a new friend. She was looking away from the group, totally disinterested in whatever they were saying.

"Now!" Formaggio practically knocked the boy back with the amount of force he used to push past him. Ghiaccio's eyes snapped from the girl to redhead's trajectory.

"Formaggio wait, there's-!" The assassin had already broken into a full sprint. Her eyes honed in on him like a hawk spotting it's next meal. Sheila's chair fell behind her as she jumped to her feet. She made every moment count in her vicious pursuit of the assassin. By the time her allies had processed the sudden explosion of motion, she was halfway to Formaggio. A path of ice formed in front of Ghiaccio, each fractal growing in rhythm with his racing heart beat. His forward glide increased speed with each step, but his new stature hindered him greatly. There was still too much room between him and his friend's pursuer. She'd catch him soon. He couldn't let that happen.

He wouldn't be witness to another tragedy.

Ghiaccio was gaining on her, but she was closing the gap between herself and Formaggio in turn. Even as he accelerated, the chances of reaching the redhead before she did were dismal. And what would he be able to do if he could reach them? Would he give her frostbite? A pit of agony was forming in his stomach. His eyes came to rest momentarily on the canal in front of them. His muscles screamed as he pushed this legs to their limit. There would only be one chance.

Ghiaccio kicked his legs out from beneath himself, landing hard on the ground and skidding forward at the same break neck pace. He could see the girl's stand materialize and begin to strike downward with it's claws as he slid past her feet. He stretched his arms out to meet Formaggio's legs, pulling him to the icy ground with him. The young assassin gripped his teammates legs tightly. The thud of their enemy's strike hitting the ground millimeters behind them was of little concern to him right now - there was still work to do.

The edge of the canal met them. He released one of Formaggio's legs and clawed into the edge of the ground. White Album had yet to fully form around his hand. The young assassin could feel his nails cracking and the bricks tearing against his palm as he prayed for the ice flash freezing around his hand to be enough to halt their momentum. The strain threatened to tear his body apart. Tension stretched across him, from the arm that gripped Formaggio across his chest and to the icy support he'd created over his hand. Ghiaccio bit his lip, forcing himself to endure the pain.

The inertia around them abated and the duo was left hanging. Ghiaccio felt as if his rib cage was separating. White album worked fast, creating a ledge of ice below them. At last he could release his grip and let the ice around his hands melt, allowing the two to fall onto the disk of ice below them.

"Holy shit.." Ghiaccio could barely hear the redhead's voice past the throbbing beat in his ears. "I think you just saved my life." Formaggio was incredulous.

"Did she see us?" The boy spoke too quickly, his words nearly slurring together. He lay on his side, eyes trained at the sky. He couldn't see the girl who'd chased them, but he could hear voices from above.

"What the hell were you doing?! Narancia could have tracked them! Why didn't you just tell us you saw something!" The yelling came from a boy slightly younger than himself. The blonde had caught up to Sheila. He gripped her shoulders. She stared back at him with a snarl.

"Do you think I'm supposed to know how to work with you? I don't even know you!" She grabbed one of the holes in Fugo's suit for leverage. "I got you here. Be thankful for that and get your hands off me."

The conversation became clearer the longer Ghiaccio listened. The pounding beat in his ears was still abating. Formaggio backed against the wall and flipped a phone out of his pocket.

"Fuck, this is bad." He keyed in numbers forcefully and moved the phone to his ear. His foot tapped against the ice as the phone rung in his ear. "Come on Prosciutto, come on.." He glanced toward Ghiaccio, who had sat up. The boy was clutching his right shoulder.

"Hello?" The calm and collected voice of their second in command echoed in Formaggio's ear.

"Prosciutto, thank god, thing's aren't good, we ran into the enemy- they spotted us, I think Ghiaccio's hurt." His sentence came out as a mismatched mess as he tried to convey too much too fast.

"Don't come back to the hotel." The answer came as a surprise to the redhead. "Stay near them."

"What - Prosciutto, that's ridiculous! We're not off to a good start! We need back up, we need to get out of here!" He demanded.

"Don't you dare come back here. We don't need any liabilities." The blond's order was more forceful this time, leaving Formaggio in a state of shock.

"How could you say that? What the hell is wrong with you?" His tone became somber as disbelief sank into him. This wasn't right. Their team would never leave them for dead. Formaggio struggled for an answer. There was nothing but an abrupt click on the other end of the line. Was it just Prosciutto? Or had Risotto quietly given him this order in the past?

The idea of his Capo betraying him stabbed Formaggio through the chest.

"Ghiaccio, how's your arm? Do you think it might be broken or something?" The redhead focused on something new. The world was overwhelming him right now. He couldn't handle the feeling of being alone. Sure, being an assassin meant being fundamentally cut off from the normal world, but this was different. Now he had nothing. He'd been severed from society's underbelly too. Formaggio was left with the sour conjugate of something intimately familiar to him; He felt small.

"I'll be alright." The boy tried to push himself to his feet, but winced and recoiled as soon as his damaged shoulder felt pressure. "What did Prosciutto say?" He almost didn't want to know - he'd never seen such a sullen look on Formaggio's face. It was so out of the norm that it was almost scary.

Formaggio only blinked in response before lowering his gaze and grasping at the right words. The younger assassin turned toward the voices above them. They'd moved fast enough for their actions to be missed, but their opponents were still searching. He faded back into the conversation.

"There's still time, it's just a matter of locating and isolating the right mark. I'm counting on you, Narancia." The voice was calm and sturdy. Ghiaccio could hear it's owner moving above them.

"Wait, hold on - You were chasing them towards the canal, right?" There was clear excitement in the young voice. It pulled Formaggio from his trance. "I've got something right over the water!"

"Shit, Ghiaccio, I'm going to need you to hold you breath, okay?" The boy's attention snapped to Formaggio, his expression of alarm mirroring his comrade's.

"Wait, what are you-!" Before he could even finish his sentence, Little Feet had appeared. In a flash the redhead began to grow to his original size. He wasted no time, swiping up Ghiaccio as he tumbled into the water and shoving the tiny assassin into his pocket. As the distorting shroud of salt water enveloped them, Formaggio kicked off from the brick wall. This beginning to his escape denied him any insight onto their enemies' actions. He couldn't check to see what they were doing, there was no time.

Salt burned his eyes as the opposite wall of the canal came into view. The ledge wasn't too high on it's own, but the assassin knew he'd need to maintain his momentum. He kicked upwards, bursting from the sea and latching onto the wall. The redhead propped his foot against the pavement and propelled himself upwards. His biceps were well trained from similar actions throughout the years. Through his work alone he'd honed his body for traversing even the strangest environments. The act of lifting himself over the ledge and rolling into an immediate sprint came as naturally as breathing.

The world at it's proper size seemed to lack in possibilities compared to its scaled counterpart. He'd settle for the most direct path in front of him. As Formaggio picked up speed his confidence in their escape grew. He wasn't in a pinch, not yet.

Something whizzed past him, sinking into the corner of a building as he reached the cover of an alleyway. In the split second as he passed it, he could see the tiny smoking hole that was left behind by the crushed bullet. Fear crept back into the forefront of his mind. He couldn't get cocky. There was still so much at stake.

Across the canal, Sheila leapt into action once more. In a flash she was running across the bridge that connected the two chunks of city. Bruno's attention shot to her briefly.

"If she's not going to listen to us, we can't be held responsible for what happens to her." The Capo's words were directed at Fugo, who was obviously uneasy over her sudden flight. The boy seemed paralyzed between two decisions.

"But if she goes over there.." He shot into motion, sprinting after their headstrong associate.

"Fugo, what are you doing!" Narancia looked away from his stand's monitor. "If you get in the way of my stand you could get hurt!" Aerosmith continued its pursuit of the assassins into the corridor. Formaggio turned sharply, nearly grazing a wall in the process. There was no time to look behind him. He needed to keep moving, and he needed cover.

The buildings that surrounded him were so dense and streamlined. If no alternative route presented itself, he'd make his own. Formaggio's gaze swept across the bricks. Just ahead was the perfect option. Cutting from his sprint, he rammed his entire body sideways into a glass panel. The shattering scream of the glass was joined by the eruption of another volley of gunfire.

As the redhead's body connected with the carpet inside the building, he felt a sting racing up his nerves. He'd broken through glass countless times before, but this was different. His feet felt cold. He lifted himself from the shards on the floor to meet face to face the glowing apparition of a fighter plane. His legs opposed him as he tried to stand. Deep red splotches trailed between Aerosmith and Formaggio. It floated in place, engine roaring. What was it waiting for?

Formaggio gazed at the patches of torn clothing just above his ankles. Stains had already begun to creep outward from the bullet holes.

"Aw, Ghiaccio, listen." He dug the boy out of his pocket. The younger assassin was dazed and more than a bit disoriented, but the he quickly came to his senses. "They might not know that there's two of us, so you gotta run or hide. I'll take little feet's effect off you soon. Warn the others," He paused, eyes returning to the stand just beyond the window frame.. "Just be sure they can't follow you." He closed his hand gently around Ghiaccio before throwing him under the opposing phantom.

There was a moment of hesitation. Ghiaccio couldn't leave, not with this thing staring Formaggio in the face. He wanted desperately to be large enough to summon a wall of ice and defend his friend. Formaggio could see his indecision clearly. He grinned at the boy.

"I'm not out of tricks just yet."

* * *

The cell phone dropped from Prosciutto's hand.

What had he just said? Why had he told his friends not to return? He was cracking under the stress, that must be it. The room felt unsteady. He turned toward Pesci.

"Everything's fine, enjoy your food."

The blond clamped a hand over his own mouth. Pesci's dismayed expression only deepened at the sudden tone shift.

"Are you sure, fratello?" Pesci hesitated as he spoke. Normally he'd have no reason to question the other - Prosciutto was always collected and precise. But what he'd heard was so jarringly out of character that he knew something was wrong.

Well, not knew. Pesci didn't want to assume that. He was probably just misunderstanding what kind of conversation the blond had been having over the phone. But if that was the case, why did his brother's expression look so pained?

"Stay here, Pesci. We can't leave this building." More nonsense spilled from his mouth. Why would he urge be urging Pesci to stay in place when their teammates were in danger? Prosciutto searched for some explanation. He could form the words in his mind. He could suck in a breath and feel his vocal chords beginning to vibrate. But as soon as the message rolled off his tongue it was distorted into a fallacy.

Prosciutto dove toward the desk and frantically searched it's drawer for a pen. Thank god for the free post it notes this place provided. The blond scratched down his message with haste before thrusting the note towards Pesci.

"Fratello," he spoke carefully, not wanting to further upset the blond. "We already have the front desk's number listed over there." Pesci gestured to the nightstand between the two beds.

Prosciutto blinked, astounded at the other's reply. He turned the note towards himself. Sure enough, he'd scrawled out a phone number with the words "Front desk" over it. He snapped immediately back into his panic. He could feel beads of sweat beginning to form. Was there no way to alert the others of Formaggio's situation?

An idea struck Prosciutto. If he couldn't communicate, he'd rely on his team's intuition.

He turned towards the door and took a deep breath. His demeanor and actions would need to be enough to convey his message.

In a flash the blond flung the door open and shot toward Risotto's room. Prosciutto kicked the door open. It slammed into the wall and jolted Risotto from the paper he was reading. The two men's eyes met. In a split second The blond would need his gaze to convey the intense distress and ferocity in his heart.

Just as quickly as he had arrived, Prosciutto departed. He sprinted down the hall, praying that his message would be received.

Wasting no time, Risotto leapt to his feet. His powerful stride led him through the door. Metallica shut it behind him, fusing the lock into place. Pesci's head stuck out of the doorway down the hall. It didn't take a single word - his Capo's stance alone told him that it was time to mobilize. The assassin's features shifted to match the same determined expression his boss wore.

Prosciutto was far ahead of them, but they swiftly followed.

Behind them, a girl had decided that her chance had arrived. The hotel wouldn't mind a little more structural damage. If the knob wouldn't turn, she'd break it apart. If the door wouldn't open, she'd kick it down.

All across Venice the potential for action had reached it's peak.


	9. La Guerra a Venezia - Part 2

_Foreword_

 _Chapters 9 and 10 were written as a a single piece, but I have decided to split them into two chapters to make their combined size manageable. As such, they are meant to be read together if possible and have no break between their events. Thank you and enjoy!_

* * *

Fugo was nearly breathless as he reached the shattered door. Sheila had already entered the room where their target had tried to escape them. She paced the floor slowly, stalking a wide circle around Formaggio. The hum of Aerosmith's idling engine engulfed the entire scene.

"So what are you gonna do, princess?" A smirk twitched on the ginger's lips as his eyes locked with Sheila's. She was unforgiving. His words passed through her without effect.

"Where's the rest of your team?" She shot the question at him.

"Team? Sorry to say, I think I've gone solo recently." He teased, raising his arms behind his head and stretching his legs out slightly before the pain from his wounds brought the motion to a swift halt.

"I'm not an idiot. I know they're here. I saw you with them at your last pitstop." She was growing impatient with the assassin's clownish attitude. "If you don't tell me where they are, I'll tear one of your legs off." The threat seemed to bring him closer to reality. Formaggio's smile faded to a disdainful grimace.

"Don't take it as an invitation or anything, but I've got nothing to tell ya." Sheila had finally ceased her pacing. He kept his eyes on her. She would notice if he tried to get a bearing on his surroundings. He'd only been allowed a brief moment to look around before his enemies had arrived. The room they were in wasn't too big, but she was keeping her distance the best she could. He'd seen a bookcase, the couch behind him, and the mirror above it. Nothing he could use at the moment.

Formaggio stayed still. Inviting an attack would be his worst bet right now. There was still the other one to worry about - the blond that Sheila had brought with her. He was waiting near the entrance. Not a fan of close spaces, the ginger assumed.

"Don't lie to me," Sheila growled. Voodoo child materialized beside her. "Tell me where he is."

"He? This is personal now?" Before the ginger could start his banter again, the stand leapt into action. Formaggio braced his already numbing legs for the impact, only to find that he wasn't her target. Voodoo Child's fist had landed next to his leg - barely a hair away. After striking it returned to it's stone faced master. Formaggio blinked. Was this some sort of intimidation? His eyes had followed the stand back to Sheila. He didn't see the plump lips form from the carpet, nor the pearly white teeth that followed them. His first indication of it's presence was the hot breath that rolled over his leg. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He wasn't allowed the luxury of seeing his attacker before it's teeth tore into him. Jagged, unnatural canines dug into his skin. The bullet wounds that speckled his calves were torn further open, leaving paths of exposed muscle in their wake.

Breath caught in his throat with the impact. The adrenaline already pumping through his veins wasn't enough to quiet his screaming nerves. Sheer agony shot through his body. He felt as if he couldn't move. Shock held him to his rigid figure. Muscles tensing and flexing against the pain as if it might help.

"Now talk." She spoke in a low rumble. Fugo tore his eyes away from the scene of torture to stare at Sheila. Of course the sight disturbed him, but somehow he'd expected this. The girl before him was a shell filled with nothing but her desire to reach a goal.

"Hah, you know, I'm usually okay with biting," Formaggio paused. He would have to gather strength to push past the pain and speak again. "But this is a little rough - even for me." His comical expression was wracked with pain.

"Disgusting." The girl crinkled her nose. The edges of her lips were drawn up into a sneer. "Even criminals think you're filth." Voodoo Child moved with her words, this time slamming a fist into the ground next to Formaggio's torso. Another pair of lips sprouted before parting and tearing into the assassin's side.

The ginger couldn't hold in his pain this time. As the mouth tore into his flesh, he let out a howl of pure anguish. Stains of red began to accumulate on pink lips as liquid gore dripped down his side. Blood oozed onto the teeth, coming to rest in the divots between each fang.

"Sheila, you need to ease off a bit." The girl's attention snapped to Fugo. Having her eyes trained on him so intensely gave the blond goosebumps. She looked ready to pounce. She always did. "If you keep ripping him up like this he's just going to die. You'll never get any information out of him."

"So? It doesn't matter if he dies, there are always more of them." She approached the writhing assassin. He panted heavily, struggling to stay alert through the never ending pain that shook through his being. "You don't know about these men, Fugo. But I do." She lifted he bare foot and stomped it down onto his arm. "They're like rats in a sewer. Even if we crush one of them, more will come out of the woodwork." She dug her heel into his wrist, wishing bones to snap under the force. The scene was certainly not the most graphic moment Fugo had ever lived through, but something about it was terribly nauseating. It was something in Sheila's demeanor. The sheer hatred and lack of empathy in her eyes. They were cold enough to chill him from across the room.

His gaze returned to the assassin bleeding out on the floor. This stranger was his enemy, he was a deadly force that would surely kill if given the chance. Yet Fugo felt pity for him. It was true that the blond new little of Formaggio, but a few facts strung together a vague picture that was almost recognizable.

Both of them were assassins under Passione. Keyword "were." The ginger belonged to a team of renegades. Clear betrayers of the mafia, sentenced to certain death. Fugo, on the other hand, was part of a team that's mission was only to mend their own mistake. But things hadn't been right lately. Buccellati had been avoiding any discussion of Passione. The blond knew he was hiding something. Considering the possibilities, it was almost certainly bad news.

Even if they did correct their error, how would their higher ups react? Fugo closed his eyes. This was the kind of situation that Buccellati had always counted on Fugo to solve. Any other time something had gone wrong, their Capo would discuss it with him and they'd figure out a plan. So what had changed. Why was Buccellati suddenly so detached?

Any time Fugo had tried to bring the subject to him, his boss had been dismissive - almost cagey - in his responses. Buccellati insisted that he already had a plan, that he knew what they were doing. So why hadn't he shared that plan with Fugo? Since the day he had joined Passione, his place was clear. He was to advise and organize. He would be Buccellati's right hand man. Up until now, he'd always felt secure in that position.

Suppressed groans of anguish continued to spill from the redhead on the floor. Sheila stared down at the mess that was Formaggio. He was out of snappy comments. He seemed dulled, muted against the scattered splashes of red that framed him. Sheila's eyes reflected everything. There was nothing bright there. No sympathy, only lingering disgust and annoyance.

They terrified Fugo. He had committed crimes and murdered people while part of Passione, but this was different. She looked inhuman. For Fugo these acts were business, a means to an end. Even so, there was always an amount of acknowledgement when it came to crime. When he had to kill, he did so quickly. Unprovoked brutality and senseless torture were distasteful. Watching Sheila's gruesome acts left him with creeping unease. She was just a bit younger with him, yet capable of this kind of savagery.

Something about it hurt.

This behavior couldn't be spurred by a mission or a paycheck. This was something much more personal. Something that consumed her like a flame, feeding on every last shred of rage and discontent. After she reached her goal would there even be anything left?

"Sheila, stop." He reached out toward her. There was hesitance in his motion. A fear that he might be burned along with her. "If you want to kill him, then finish it. If you want information, then let him rest a bit. Just make the decision." Her head snapped toward him.

"We may be working together, but I don't have to follow your orders." The girl hissed.

"It's not an order, I just think that this has gone on long enough." Fugo took a cautious step toward her. "I can do it myself if you won't." Sheila looked down at the mangled assassin. Her eyes swept across him, scanning every inch. Voodoo Child stood at the ready.

"Do you think he doesn't deserve this, Fugo?" Her voice had dropped some of it's earlier intensity. Fugo followed her gaze. Formaggio's body looked ragged. It was clear that he was bleeding out. It wouldn't take too long now. He paused to take a breath before replying.

"I don't know what he deserves - I don't know anything about him. I guess you know something, so why don't you tell me what kind of horrible things he's done to deserve this?" He tried to look into her eyes. She refused to meet him. The mouths continued to gnaw lightly on Formaggio.

"He's an assassin. He's one of them. They're horrible people - isn't that obvious?" Sheila's voice had shrunk.

"I'm an assassin too, just part of a different branch. So are the others. What makes us any different?" He spoke softly, yet anxiety pressed against the back of his skull. Logic seldom deterred emotion.

"They're different. They're worse." The mouths had ceased gnawing. They gripped Formaggio tightly now, tense with anticipation.

"How are we different, Sheila?"

She didn't answer him. Her eyes were still fixed on the floor. She knew these men were evil, how could they not be after what they'd done? It didn't matter if the man on the ground wasn't the one she was chasing. Formaggio was still one of his teammates. Guilty by association. That was the difference. That should have been enough to earn him this. Her frown deepened. The lips on the ground faded away.

"Fine, do whatever. He'll black out soon enough anyway." She turned and quickly moved toward the broken door they'd entered from. Through the fog that lingered in her mind, a spark of curiosity stopped her at the threshold. She turned to look back at the blond. If he intended to finish off the assassin, he'd likely use his stand. To her surprise, Fugo was following at her. He caught her glance at him fully.

"We're going to need to be a little further back." He squinted at the sky, trying to locate the sun.

"If it's that much trouble, just slit his neck. Here-" Sheila dug into her pocket and produced a small knife. She flicked out the blade and offered it to Fugo.

A soft creak interrupted them.

Both their heads snapped back to the inside of the room. A streak of blood trailed up to Formaggio's body, now being hoisted by a goggle-clad stand. Only it's torso was visible as is retreated back into the mirror. A dark haired man stood on the couch, assisting the stand in an attempt to make the movement as gentle as possible. His eyes hit the duo at the door.

"Fuck." Illuso breathed out. The knife dropped from Sheila's hand. For a split second her body felt completely numb. Every nerve in her being was struck with disbelief. She had no need to think. Blind fury could guide her from here on out.

A bulbous, spiky head poked out of the mirror. It's claws grasped the edges of the frame as it chuckled to itself. The couch began to shift, splitting into green cubes and climbing one after the other. Baby Face stacked them in front of Illuso, forming a barrier between the assassin and the girl. Sheila could see her opening closing - the wall was forming impossibly fast. Desperation soaked into her. She felt as if she was bursting apart at the seams. Voodoo Child apparated beside her as her fist plunged into the wall. She could feel it crack. It was still made out of a couch, afterall.

She began clawing, desperately pulling fabric and wood from the wall. Splinters cracked away as she dug ferally. Her nails hit the frame, bending and twisting against the force the girl had backed them with. She could feel fragments of wood being pushed into her skin. She didn't care. Her stand followed her motions - it's giant paws were much better suited for such labor. With one final blow, it punched through. Sheila tore at the side of the hole, frantic to get to the other side.

A beige wall was the only thing she could see. She continued digging. Voodoo Child tore into the frame, ripping down the middle and burrowing in to let its master through. The girl pushed herself into the shielded space. Mangled pieces of the wall drug against her skin. Only a wall and the mirror met her.

Sheila's expression dropped. Her hands shook as she lifted them to the mirror. Her mangled fingertips slid down the surface, leaving a soft squeak in their wake. It was empty now. All she could see was herself. She balled her hands into a fists, head dropping low. She drew a fist back and pounded against the glass. Tears welled in her eyes. Another hand hit the reflection, this one harder than the last. Glass shattered, fragments stuck to her hands as she drew them back before pushing them forward into another blow. Over and over again she struck the mirror. Shards fell to the floor. When she finally stopped, the mirror had been reduced to a broken mess at her feet.

"Sheila, are you alright?" She could barely perceive the muffled sound of Fugo's voice. She turned to the hole she'd torn in the barrier and pushed back out. Dead eyes glared at Fugo. He stood a few feet from her, concern etched into his face.

She felt empty. She felt disgusted. Most of all, she felt fury.

"Fugo." Her voice barely rose above a whisper. The blond took another step toward her. Sheila jolted into action, taking her chance. She cut the distance between them and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. Her ragged hands left splotches of blood everywhere they touched. She wanted to push him into a wall or to the ground, but her body ached and her muscles were ready to freeze.

Fugo's breathe caught in his throat. Her sudden aggression put him on guard - But he wouldn't fight to free himself from her grasp. Guilt welled in his throat. He didn't know much about her. They'd barely spoken. But in the past half hour he'd seen enough. He knew he'd ruined something coveted. The girl's head was down. He could feel the unsteadiness in her grasp. Her muscles screamed and her nerves throbbed.

"Never again, as long as you are alive," Her voice was dire as she spoke. She lifted her head. Her eyes met his. Her face was twisted. Fugo could see her grief and fury, her bloodlust and desperation. Sheila's eyes pierced him with a blind rage. He felt his blood grow cold as he saw his face reflected there. "You will never get in my way ever again. If you ever do, I will rip you to pieces." She took another breath, fighting to restrain her tears as she made her will known. "And when I do, you will deserve it more than that assassin ever did."

* * *

The blade of Ghiaccio's skate turned sharply against the tiled path below it. Corners of buildings were nothing to him. He was far past the skill level of many professional skaters - that's what happened when you grew up in a dangerous environment with an equally dangerous stand. Right now all he could think of was making his way back to the group of Passione stand users. Little Feet's effects had worn off and he was more than willing to make use of his full size and ability.

He stopped, blade grinding into the icy path that constantly formed in front of him. He could see them ahead. Not close enough for them to notice him immediately, but close enough that he could recognize them. Five were left. They'd crossed the bridge and now stood on the same side of the canal as him. All he needed was speed. Inertia would carry his target with him, the difficult part would be choosing who he'd aim for.

If he attacked just one of them, he could take the group's focus away from Formaggio. Maybe he could even draw the attention of the airplane stand that he'd faced before.

A teen in tiger striped pants was approaching the alleyway that Formaggio had fled into earlier. He had a gun out. White Album rendered bullets useless on him, but it would be best to take someone who was unarmed. His eyes frantically searched them before he settled and made his decision.

Ghiaccio pressed his foot backward, loading his leg with potential energy before exploding off the ice. He quickly settled into the gliding motion, picking up speed like a bullet. The assassin was agile enough to be almost upon them by the time they noticed him. It was too late. He thrust a hand forward. The man with short black hair opened his mouth, calling out a warning to his teammate.

Buccellati's shout hit Narancia's ears as Ghiaccio's hand came to wrap around his neck. The force of the blow blocked his airway. Narancia clawed as his attackers arm as he was carried along the canal. He couldn't find any traction below him - the ground had turned to ice.

Now Ghiaccio's concern was putting distance between them and the rest of the group. He could feel his target struggling in his grasp. This stranger was surely a stand user. The assassin knew that he had little time before he unveiled his ability. He turned a corner. He'd need to make sure that the others would lose him. There was another canal up ahead. Ghiaccio would need to find somewhere to cross. For a moment his eyes met with his target's. Initial panic had began to drain from Narancia's face. Determination took root in its place.

Through White Album's helmet, Ghiaccio heard the familiar sound of an engine.

A sudden pressure hit his back. A hundred points of pressure blasted against his back, sending him hurtling forward. He'd lost his balance, but inertia still surrounded him. In a flash he found nothing supporting him - ground had disappeared from its place beneath his feet. The two of them hurtled into the water. Ghiaccio ground his teeth as he realized what had happened. The splash erupting around them tensed and solidified. Molecules tightened around Ghiaccio, bonding with one another and coming to support him. The structure around the two boys was a macabre mix of jagged edges and smooth waves. Ice continued to spread out from the epicenter that was Ghiaccio, increasing the icebergs radius.

He looked to the target he'd plucked from his enemy's unit. His arms and the entire back of his body were melded into the ice. He wouldn't be able to pull himself out - Narancia's skin was already beginning to freeze into place.

"If you're going to take a hostage, we are too." Ghiaccio hissed, pulling his hand from the boy's neck. Aerosmith opened another volley of fire behind him. Even if it's bullet's eventually broke through the twisted wall of ice behind them, White Album's armor would protect him as it had from the earlier fire.

"You don't-" Narancia coughed, struggling to breath through the pain in his throat. "You don't kill hostages, idiot!"

"What?" Ghiaccio grimaced. "I'm not killing you, but I'm not going to make this peasant either!"

"If you're not trying to kill me than what's with the shark?" Narancia's eyes were focused on something beyond Ghiaccio, something looming outside the ice barrier that stretched around them.

"What are you.." Ghiaccio turned his head. Through the ice that continued to grow around him, he could see a monstrous shape hurtling down the canal. There was no time to react. The creature collided with them, sending the iceberg spinning out like a bumper car. Ghiaccio pressed his arm against the side of the barrier. Had his legs not been frozen into the mass, he would have lost his balance.

The beast took no break. It turned it's massive body back towards the iceberg and prepared to charge them again.

"That's not one of your comrades coming to save you?!" Ghiaccio yelled.

"That things not trying to save me, it's trying to kill me! That's probably your stand - you're just using it to mess with me, aren't you?!" Narancia matched the shout with one of his own. For a moment Ghiaccio was taken aback by the inane nature of the boy's response.

"You're already looking at my stand!" His voice was filled with an aggressive disbelief. "If you're not alive, I can't trade you over for Formaggio!" As the two exchanged shouts, The giant shark garnered more speed. Ghiaccio's gaze rose to the monstrosity. Narancia's bullet's lacked the strength to completely penetrate his armor, so the aquatic stand would be his first priority. He needed to get himself and his hostage out of the water. It was closing in on them again, it's mouth stretched open to reveal rows of jagged white teeth.

Just before it reached them, Clash dived deeper into the canal. The stand propelled itself into the bottom of the mass of ice and causing it to tip back before crashing into another wall. Ghiaccio bit his lip. It was trying to capsize them. He needed to act quickly and use the impact to his advantage. Their collision with the wall sent a wave hurtling over the side of the canal. In the split second that it began to ease back from its highest crest, Ghiaccio froze it in place.

In an instant the ice encasing Narancia and Ghiaccio's legs melted. The assassin slung his arm around his hostage's waist, pulling him up up the bridge of ice with him. Clash was already racing towards them again. The mafioso practically dragged himself and his hostage onto the tiled street of Venice.

Ghiaccio pushed himself from all fours to his feet. His heavy breath created a slight fog on White Album's visor. Clash floated idly in the water. The empty red bulbs that served as its eyes seemed focused on the two. It sunk into the canal and disappeared from Ghiaccio's view. The next seconds were empty. Anticipation weighed on the boy's shoulders. It wasn't over. He could feel it.

Clash exploded from the brine. The metallic tones of it's form made it difficult to distinguish it from the torrent of water that it's tail sent hurtling towards them. The wave broke against the two of them. Droplets froze as they hit White Album's shell. The beast sent another burst of water at them. It's only strength now was it's size. Ghiaccio grinned.

"That's all you can do now? Splash us like some angry kid?" he burst out laughing. All he had to do now was avoid the canals. A third wave broke against him before the water sloshed into a peaceful lul. Clash had disappeared. The assassin couldn't be more pleased - He'd made the monster into a useless bounded hazard.

Ghiaccio's victory was interrupted by a loud hum behind him. Aerosmith unleashed a volley of fire. The bullets impacted into his suit and broke his balance. He stumbled forward slightly before whipping around to face the now drenched Narancia. The assassin's glare held deadly anger. Enough had already happened. He wouldn't tolerate any petulance from this boy. Heavy steps carried him through the puddle and toward Narancia, leaving splashes in their wake. Ghiaccio raised his hand to the other's neck. With a single powerful motion, he shoved Narancia back into the side of a building.

The smaller gangster's head cracked against the bricks. He grit his teeth together as the wave of pain travelled down his body. Narancia raised a shaky hand to grab onto Ghiaccio's wrist. He still felt frozen to his core. A tinge of blue danced on his fingertips. The sheer cold that surrounded the assassin's arm provoked an immediate instinct to draw away, but Narancia persevered and glared at his captor's face. Beads of water dripped down from his soaked hair and slid down to his chin. His resolve wouldn't break so easily. Even if his body was about to collapse, the boy would still fight back.

"If you keep firing that thing at me," Ghiaccio began. "I swear to god I'll freeze your eyes in your skull and shatter them." His grip around Narancia's neck tightened. "If you want to live and get back to your team in one piece, you're going to need to work with me. My squad has bigger problems to deal with than some gang of misfit kids. There's obviously a third party here, and it seems like they don't really like either of us." Ice began creeping from Ghiaccio's arm to Narancia's fingers. "But if you stay in line, we'll both get what we want. Got it?"

"So what you're saying is," Narancia wheezed slightly as he sucked in a labored breath. "You've got bigger fish to fry." A sly grin spread across the boy's face. Ghiaccio's face remained a stiff display of anger, mouth clamped tightly shut as he scrambled for a way to respond to such a comment.

"Sure. Now behave." He released his grip and took a step back. "Or I'll kill you." The last sentence was just for good measure. They were facing a common threat, but this tiny gangster was still his enemy.

Narancia rubbed his throat and sloshed through the puddle towards Ghiaccio. Aerosmith was effectively useless so long as Ghiaccio was wearing White Album. If his bullets had no effect, any physical attacks he himself could dole out would be too. As much as he wanted to give this guy hell, shattered eyeballs didn't sound like a fun time.

Narancia followed behind Ghiaccio silently as they passed through the compact alleyways of Venice. Each stony corner led them to a new passageway. Some were residential, lined with windows and potted plants. Others were as lone and bare as a desert - despite the perpetual smell of salty water that wafted through the air. Narancia could tell that the assassin leading him seemed dead-set on getting somewhere. He slid a hand through his soaked hair. The drenched state of his clothes only made the trip all the more unsavory.

The pair came across a new canal, this one skinny with a raised stone bridge arching over it. Both sets of eyes leered cautiously at the water.

"So, this is kinda like one of those 'the enemy of my enemy is my enemy' situations, right?" Narancia spoke up as Ghiaccio stepped onto the set of stairs that would lead them across the water.

"What?" Ghiaccio looked disgusted. "No, that's not even how that saying goes! 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Did you fail elementary school or something?" Narancia averted his gaze at the other's scorn. "Regardless, that's not what this situation is. You're a hostage." Ghiaccio turned sharply back to navigation.

"Sure, whatever." Narancia grumbled, shrinking back slightly. "I'm just sayin', I've got a pretty tough stand. Instead of running from that shark, we could blast it to bits next time."

"Your stand isn't even powerful enough to break through my White Album. You really think it can take on a giant shark?" Ghiaccio didn't even look back as he criticised the boy.

"Hey, uh, maybe you didn't notice, but your stand wasn't able to do jack shit to it either." Narancia retorted as an impish grin grew on his face. This guy wasn't so much dangerous as he was haughty. As long as Ghiaccio was adamant on this prisoner-guard dynamic, the boy would be able to get in some jabs. All he had to do was stay _mostly_ in line.

"I was focused on saving both of our asses, not getting into a fight!" The assassin huffed. He wouldn't admit it, but Clash had terrified him. Yes, any body of water usually gave him an advantage, but this was different. That advantage had been stolen.

"Aw, you really do care about me!" Narancia teased.

"No! For the last time! I'm using you as a bargaining chip!" Ghiaccio's volume was increasing. This only delighted Narancia further.

"Ah, so that's how it is." The boy grinned. "To embarrassed to admit your own feelings. It's alright, I'm pretty experienced in these things - I know how to read between the lines." He followed the declaration with an eyebrow wiggle for good measure.

"Oh, I'm so sure you are!" Ghiaccio groaned.

* * *

Prosciutto had stopped in front of a canal. His chest rose and fell in a heavy pant. Risotto stopped beside him. The blonde had been running without direction. He knew his comrades were in danger somewhere, but he didn't know where. Whatever was corrupting his speech had prevented him from getting any real information from Formaggio.

"Prosciutto." His Capo's baritone voice pulled his attention from his inner plight. "I may not know the details, but I understand that we're in danger. I feel as if we're making little progress. If you believe running around like this is the best action to take, I'll trust you. But we may need to change our strategy."

"Someone called Fratello." Pesci piped up from behind the two. Risotto nodded slowly, encouraging the timid assassin to continue. "I think there was a problem with the conversation they had, so I couldn't tell what was going on. Maybe we could still reach the others by phone?" Prosciutto nodded and snapped before retrieving the phone from his pocked and holding it out to the Capo. Pesci smiled at the silent praise.

"Good thinking." He clicked through the phone's menus until he found the latest call. The man held the device to his ear as the other line rang. After a few seconds, there was a small click.

"Hello?" Illuso's voice scratched through the speaker.

"Illuso? What's going on?" Risotto demanded with a calm conviction in his voice. It was strange - he'd never seen the dark haired assassin leave the hotel.

"I found Formaggio." He responded. "I don't know what happened, but I saw you and Prosciutto leaving and I knew something was wrong. I used the mirror world to find him, and he's not doing so hot. We need to get him help immediately."

"Where are you? We can head to your location right away." Risotto turned towards his men, ready to relay information.

"I can head toward the San Marco Campanile. I'll try to do what I can for Formaggio when I get there - He's bleeding a lot." Illuso's voice grew more serious. "There were two others around when I arrived. Thank god I found an opening, I thought I was going to watch him die." Risotto tensed at his last words.

"Take any precautions you can, those two could be following you. Hide inside the mirror world until we get to you." He ordered.

"I'm still inside of it now. Melone sent Babyface with me for extra support. It's not an ideal situation, but I'm not alone." Illuso explained.

"Good. Focus on what you're doing now, we'll meet you there soon." Risotto ended the call and looked to the two men. "They're at the San Marco Campanile. We need to get there and keep Formaggio alive." As he spoke, he could see a clear tension cross the two assassin's faces.

His first assumption was that the details of the situation had shocked them. But their eyes weren't focused on him. Prosciutto and Pesci looked past him. Risotto turned his head.

Two figures stood across the street. One was clad in a white suit covered in dots that matched his dark hair. Risotto recognized the second immediately - It was the golden haired boy he'd met in the ruins of Pompeii. The Capo's eyes narrowed.

"You two go. I'll handle this."

* * *

Trish's fingertips brushed against the grain of the door. She could feel the slivers that had arisen from the frame after her attacks. She had few tools at her disposal. Human force should have been enough to break the lock, right?

Perhaps that would be true under normal circumstances. The girl was slowly coming to accept the exceptional strangeness that had become the norm in her life. Risotto could control metal. Was he still affecting the lock after leaving? She reached up and jiggled the knob again. It's only movement was at it's base. It refused to turn in the slightest. Her new hypothesis was that he had somehow melded the lock together.

Trish would just have to hit the door harder next time.

She stood up. Her feet had begun to ache from repeated blows. Her eyes scoured the room. Maybe there was something she could use. The girl walked to the desk and slid its drawer open. Pens. Notepad. A bible. Those would do little for her. A slim ray of light shone across the desk's surface. Her eyes were drawn across the length of it, eventually falling to the crack in the curtains.

She stood still for a moment before sliding the curtains apart and crawling behind them. The daylight that suddenly surrounded her blurred her vision temporarily. The curtain behind her caught the sun's rays like a net, entrenching her it's golden glow. As the dazzle cleared, rooftops of Venice greeted her. Trish lowered the angle of her view to the streets. She must be at least six stories up. The height hypnotized her. Of course she felt the dizzying fear that the sight inspired, but something else accompanied it. An odd urge, an idea. The side of the hotel wasn't a flat surface. Each window was decorated with a lovely brick frame. In Trish's eyes, they looked like they'd work as sufficient ledges. Maybe there was a better way to escape.

"There is a better way."

The voice broke Trish from the concentration she'd fallen into. Beyond the curtains someone had addressed her. She threw them open, ready to face whatever stranger had made their way inside. Despite her frantic scan of the room, there wasn't a soul to be seen. Her heart had begun thumping. Was she hearing things now? Had she been driven to such a point?

Her steps were filled with energy as she reached the desk, throwing open the drawer. The bible she'd seen earlier was compact, but it was also thick. The weight she felt as she drew it into the air by its spine reassured her. Sun streaked across the room, creating an alley on the floor between herself and her target. If Trish gave herself time to reassess, she would have put the book down and realized the insanity of her plan.

But she refused this urge. She followed the instinct nipping at her ankles and sent the bible hurtling through the air. She saw each second in crisp detail. The book collided with the window, sending a spiderweb across the panel. Force continued to push the book forward, causing the web to collapse in upon itself and shatter outward. As the glinting pieces of glass disappeared beyond the ledge, only jagged edges were left behind.

"You'll be alright."

Nothing stood between Trish and the outside world.

She'd created her chance, and she intended to seize it. She climbed onto the window sill. A slight breeze crept through her hair as the six story drop glared up at her. The girl dropped to her knees. She didn't know where to start, but she knew that she'd have to try. She turned her back to the drop and slowly slid one leg off the edge.

The shift in weight hit her immediately. More than ever Trish could feel the danger in her actions. From where she sat, leg dangling off the ledge, she had a clear view of the closed door. It was all she needed to convince herself to move forward. Both legs hung off the edge. Her body's weight rested only on her arms and torso. The next window wouldn't be too far down. She scooted further off the ledge slowly, feet moving to find the step below her.

They found nothing. As pain began to set into the half of her body suspending her weight, panic flickered. This had been a terrible plan from the start. She needed to get back onto secure ground. She stretched an arm forward in attempt to pull her body back up, but the force of gravity only pulled her further off the ledge. Her pulse jumped. Electricity prickled up her spine as fear sunk deeper into her bones. She shot her other hand forward. Her arms ached in vain as she desperately clawed against the bricks. Her was stamina wearing thin.

Surely there was something she could do, some way out of this mess. She lacked the strength to reach safety. Slowly she was drawing closer to her limit. Her entire body was tense. Blood pumped throughout her body, rushing to give oxygen to the muscles that quaked under the weight set upon them. Trish couldn't breathe. Her fingers slipped further back, skin grinding away against uneven stone. Her body shook in the final moment that she clung to the window ledge. Nothing would catch her. No one could help her. The familiar stinging taste of isolation filled her mouth as she felt her grip release. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized that her end would match the life she'd led.

There was a moment of weightlessness in her descent. It felt soft almost. The fears that had stalked her only minutes ago left her with the window ledge. There was no Father to think of. No life or Mother to mourn. Only the unbreakable promise of the ground below her. It would end in only a second.

She saw the lowest floor in her peripheral vision before the ground met her. The very edges of her vision filled in slowly. She didn't expect the feathery sensation that the impact left her with. She didn't expect most of her vision to be left clear, nor the dark edges to have the pattern of gray stones.

This was lasting quite awhile. She continued lying still. That's what she was supposed to do, right?

Each moment grew more odd. She waited. There was no pain, no tunnel or bright light. Just the same view of the clouds over Venice.

Had the pavement below her sunk? She moved her arm to lift herself up, only to find the ground to give with her push. In fact, the ground surrounding her body was entirely squishy, despite being made of brick. Her confusion only grew. Trish wiggled her entire body, fighting to lift herself from the soft ground. Her efforts were rewarded - At last she managed to sit up.

"Trish?" A familiar voice was calling her. "Trish! You're okay!" It took her a moment to cut through the confusion and recognize who was addressing her.

"Narancia?" She turned to look behind her. Sure enough, the runty assassin was standing only meters from where she'd fallen.

"I can't believe it! I found you and you're alright!" The elated boy rushed to her side, offering a hand to help her from the pit.

"I think I'm pretty far from alright." She took his hand and clumsily pulled herself out of the pit. The feeling of her boots on sturdy ground was a god send. Trish looked back to the place she'd fallen. It looked no different than any other patch of sidewalk. Cautiously she slid her boot back to where she had landed and tapped the ground with her toe. The firm rock let out a small click in response.

"It's okay now, we're here to save you!" The boy shook her arm slightly. The motion jolted her back to the new development.

"Where are the others? Have you seen those assassins yet? What's wrong with this place?" She looked down at his attire. "Why are your clothes all wet?" Her barrage of questions passed so quickly that Narancia barely knew where to begin with a response.

"We - uh, well, I guess there's some trouble and a bit to explain. I _may_ have gotten separated from the others. I think we're trying to get back to them now and make a trade.." His smile shrunk away.

"Wait, we? Who else is.." Her eyes slid to the figure approaching them. She recognized the blue locks obscured behind White Album's visor immediately. She felt lightning igniting her chest. There was no way in hell she was going to let one of them lock her up again. Not after what she'd just been through.

Trish's first instinct was to run.

She wondered why her feet were anchored in place, why her mind was whirling. She felt adrenaline rise and her fight or flight instinct reverse its previous decision. No words were spoken, but she felt the same soft voice she'd heard in the room. The same sensation it's suggestions held brushed against her skin.

Ghiaccio was opening his mouth as if to speak, but Trish had already pushed off from the concrete. She barrelled towards him. Her actions didn't make sense, but they _felt_ right. She had to trust that. His eyes widened as the boy realized what was happening. The distance between them had closed. She was right upon him now. Fingers wrapped in a fist, arm drawn back, every bit of force she could muster pushing her forward.

Trish's fist sank into his gut - quite literally. Her hand wasn't stopped by White Album - it twisted along with the force of her punch, even sinking inward. The motion was unnatural. It defied physics. Trish had punched through him, and yet no hole was made. There was no tear or crack in his armor. His skin hadn't broken either. Yet her fist came to rest where the middle of his stomach would be. Ghiaccio felt a twisting, knotting pain akin to nothing he'd ever experience. He felt as if his guts had been stretched apart on a medieval rack. A terrible Nausea welled up in him. Just beyond the girl's shoulder, he could see a pink figure staring him dead in the eye. He wobbled backward and drew a hand to his stomach. Everything was already back in place.

"This isn't- You're not supposed to-" Pain seared through his thoughts. Ghiaccio dropped to his knees. Trish stared at her fist and slowly uncurled her fingers.

"Woah, holy shit!" Narancia piped up and hopped over to examine the newly manifested stand and kneeling assassin. "I didn't think you had a stand, Trish!" The girl turned her attention to the dark haired boy, face stitched with intrigue.

"A stand?" She blinked incredulously. "Like the things these assassins have?" She glanced from Narancia to Ghiaccio. "Wait, Risotto said all of Passione have stands." Her eyes returned to the dark haired boy. "Narancia, you must have a stand too, right?" He grinned in response.

"Sure do, and it is loads better than his shitty ice stand." A gust of air burst across the three as Aerosmith appeared above Narancia. Trish gazed up at it in awe.

"Do they all have shapes like that?" Her eyes hadn't left the plane.

"Yeah- WAit, have you not seen yours yet? But it's so cool, just look right behind you!" With so much phantasm flooding her senses, it took Trish a moment to comprehend his words. Slowly her eyes drifted back to Narancia. She said nothing, tongue tied by wonder. She turned her head and the rest of her body followed.

The figure that met her struck her immediately with a sense of ease. Despite the unnatural pink hues that adorned it's body, it seemed utterly in place. The stand harkened her back to a mythology book she'd once pursued. It's confident stance, the feeling of conviction and pride that emanated off of it, even the skirt that adorned it's hips. Momentarily Trish forgot where she was; Surely this was a mirage of Athena standing before her.

"I'll always be with you." It's voice was like feathers gently stroking her face. "I always have been." Incredulous. She felt as if she wanted to respond, but words no words formed.

Slowly she faded back into reality. A groan from the assassin curled up on the ground reminded her of the current situation. She turned to Narancia as Spice Girl dissipated behind her.

"I don't really know what I did to him, but let's get out of here while we still have time." She urged. Narancia still wore a huge grin, having been completely elated to watch the girl meet her stand for the first time. But the smile dropped into a puzzled look after she spoke.

"Trish, hold on, um," he slung an arm around her shoulders, forcing her to bend forward slightly and come down to his height. "I don't think that's a good idea." He whispered. Narancia glanced back at Ghiaccio for a moment. He was still too preoccupied with pain to eavesdrop. "Look, he definitely deserved that punch, and really - that was totally sick! But I'm kinda working an angle here. This guy's a total jerk, but he's also good with water. There's something tailing us, Trish. Something big and grey with huge teeth." The boy barred his own fangs as if to demonstrate.

"So? He's still our enemy!" Come to think of it, wasn't Narancia her enemy too? Sure, Buccellati's group hadn't been the ones to straight-up kidnap her, but that didn't change that she hadn't been with them by choice.

"Yeah! I know! And this whole situation is really bad, but listen. He thinks I'm his hostage. He wants to trade me to get his friend back. That means he's going to go back toward Buccellati. Once he's there, we'll all just beat the shit out of him and run away to safety. Now that you're here, it's the perfect plan." Narancia grinned. Trish could practically see him mentally patting himself on the back. Still, the boy had a point. It would be a way to get back to the relative safety Buccellati and the others could provide.

But did she really want that?

The idea wasn't sitting well with her. There had been a time when she wanted nothing more to be free of the assassins and back with the order-obeying gangsters who she knew couldn't hurt her. But things were different now. The image of Spice Girl slipped into her mind. Now she just wanted to be free.

Another groaned escaped Ghiaccio. Narancia's arm slid away from Trish. Aerosmith disappeared. There was too much whirling within her head right now.

"Look." The assassin was still clutching his stomach. "I don't know why the hell you have a stand or why you thought it would be a good idea to attack me, but I'll give you one warning. Never try something like that again and this won't have to get ugly."

"Right." Trish fought not to stutter. "I was just surprised. This is new to me. I didn't know what was going on." Ghiaccio eyed her like a hawk. "I've seen what you and your group can do. I don't want to challenge that." The addition seemed to satisfy him. He strode past both of them, White Album thickening it's shell as he moved.

"Let's get going then." Ghiaccio commanded. Narancia and Trish exchanged a glance behind his back. This should be easy enough. Narancia followed suit behind the assassin, Trish in his wake.


	10. La Guerra a Venezia - Finale

_Foreword_

 _Chapters 9 and 10 were originally a single chapter, but have been split in two to make their length manageable. Please be sure you have already read chapter 9, as it's events lead directly into the ones here. Enjoy!_

* * *

Judging by what had just happened, Ghiaccio was sure that the rest of his team had left the hotel. If they'd been around, Trish wouldn't have been able to slip away. They could be anywhere. Maybe they were responding to Formaggio's call after all?

The boy's eyes scanned his surroundings. The most glaring path was just beyond them - a bridge spanning the grand canal. Ghiaccio grit his teeth slightly. The prospect of crossing water still made him uneasy. But this would be the fastest way back toward a more central location in the city. He let out a heavy breath that fogged slightly against white album's visor before signalling to his detainees where they'd be going.

"It's not ideal, but we should cross the canal again." It seemed a little silly to address his hostages, but the act of announcing his decision helped Ghiaccio to steel himself. They moved air of apprehension surrounding the boys for the first few meters. Their eyes scanned the water's surface for any breaks or shadows.

Trish could see the strange behavior, but found no obvious reasoning for it. Could they both just be scared of heights? It seemed unlikely for gangsters to have such childish fears. Her own eyes swept over the ocean's surface. It's pristine blue danced to a silent rhythm. She hardly found it frightening - It reminded her of home. The salty smell relaxed her, taking her from the current situation to a nostalgic dream of peace. A smile slipped on her lips. She looked back to the boy in front of her.

"Oh, Narancia, you've-" Something had caught her eye. A bead of water had formed at the end of one of his unruly locks of hair. At first it had simply looked discolored. Now she swore there was a gray bug trapped within the droplet. "Something must have crawled into your hair."

"Hm?" Narancia's gaze turned to her as she reached toward his head. She could swipe it away, no harm done.

Her hand stopped. The bug had disappeared.

"Oh." Trish blinked, perplexed by the occurrence. It must have been a trick of the light. The droplet fell from Narancia's hair.

The ground just behind the group exploded into chunks of rubble and clouds of dust. Through the gray haze they could see a monstrous caudal fin breaking through the bridge. Violent tremors surged through the ground, throwing each of them off balance and onto the ground.

Ghiaccio formed a strip of ice along the wall he'd found himself pressed against. He froze a hand to the support and assessed the others. Trish and Narancia had both managed to avoid falling into the water. Before any of them could find their bearings, the structure they stood on began to groan. With a vital point destroyed, the bridge wouldn't be able to sustain it's own weight. The structure lurched and groaned, inching toward its imminent peril.

Narancia grabbed Trish's wrist, pulling her to her feet alongside him. She stumbled, the ground around her feet was beginning to warp and crack.

"Both of you move! Now!" It was the assassin who shouted out them. He had already gotten to his feet. His gaze was trained on the water. The beast would resurface soon and he knew that. "Get across the bridge and to solid ground before this whole thing falls!"

His command was futile. Even if they had ran, they would never have made it to the other side. Clash swung its tail again. A section of bridge ahead of them was purged of its remaining structural integrity. There was a moment of horrid weightlessness as the stone that supported them plunged downward, sinking them into a bath of salty blue. The sheer mass of the bridge that descended into the depths below them sucked them downward, entrenching them in a pummeling flurry of waves. Trish's arm slipped from Narancia's grasp. She opened her eyes, but the dizzying motion around her made it hard impossible for her to get her bearings enough to search for him.

The torrents around her began to subdue and a lurking shadow filled the space before her. She'd seen glimpses of Clash's size before, but they hardly prepared her to come face to face with the reality of the creature. What seemed to be a monster out of a horror movie was jetting toward her, mouth agape and teeth set to maim. Bubbles blurred past her eyes and her heart raced. She could swim away, she could try to escape it. Her outstretching arms and kicking limbs clung to that idea. Yet the beast grew closer, the space within its mouth a deep void from which nothing would escape.

Before it could reach her, the water in its mouth solidified into a wedge of solid ice. The beast crashed into Trish. It couldn't swallow her with the block in its jaw, but the impact left her body feeling shattered as she rolled across the side of the shark. Air pushed from her lungs, water sucked into it's place. Burning pain filled her chest. Panicked, the light skipping on the canal's surface called her.

Her movements were frantic as she clawed at the surface. She felt fatigue seep into her muscles. Trish burst from the water, gulping in more air than she thought her lungs could hold. The sweet feeling of breath didn't last long. A fit of coughs seized her as she bobbed on the surface. She could feel her chest struggling to push fluid out.

Hands seized Trish from behind, pulling her onto a solid surface. The shock of the encounter still pulsed through her. She struggled against the grip, flailing as she found herself on a freshly formed plate of ice. As frost stung against her skin, logic took over. She calmed her muscles and examined the situation. Ghiaccio stood behind her. One of his arms was still hooked around her, the other was raised to defend himself from her strikes.

"Look, stay here. I'm going to take care of this." The assassin seemed a bit more focused now that she wasn't trying to beat him. He looked back out towards the water. Whose advantage was it? Usually Ghiaccio felt comfortable fighting near water - it was easy for White Album to use it in his favor. But this battle was different, his enemy's stand existed in the water. Worse yet, it had drawn them all into it's home field.

His eyes fell to Trish. She'd pulled herself further onto his platform, and now she too was searching for Clash. His mind raced back to just moments ago, when they'd both been submerged. The shark had made a pointed attack at Trish. It hadn't been pulling a punch - it fully intended to swallow her whole and grind her to pieces. Ghiaccio's brow furrowed. It didn't make any sense. This was Trish Una - the boss's daughter. The liability he'd been feverishly trying to salvage.

The assassin's face paled as he was hit with sudden realization. Liability. Trish was a liability - they themselves had proven that. The boss's concern wasn't with saving his daughter, it was with saving himself - even if that meant committing prolicide. Ghiaccio gnawed on his lip. The thought was disturbing, even to an assassin.

"Are you just gonna stand around or what? We need to blast this thing!" Narancia had bobbed out of the canal and was beginning to pull himself onto the patch of ice. "It's gonna be back any minute, so why the hell are we sitting around?!" Ghiaccio's attention was pulled to the boy.

"I hate to admit it, but you're right. We need to eliminate this thing." He clenched his fist. Sheer cold emitted off of him. Pieces of a plan fell together in his head, shifting and turning until they fit into place like a game of tetris. "Listen," he addressed Narancia, who was quick to dial in. "Attacking this thing recklessly isn't going to work, but I think I know something that will. I can push my White Album further and freeze parts of it's body - if I focus on one spot at a time, I should be able to almost crystallize it." The assassin looked out towards the water. He could see a dark shadow hurtling towards them in the distance. "If you fire volleys at the places I freeze, we can chip away at it."

"Oh, so we are gonna be partners in crime now?" An impish grin slid across Narancia's face. As much as Ghiaccio detested it, he'd forgive the look for now. Narancia gazed toward his target as determination weaved its way into his expression. "Let's save the day then!"

"I can make you a bit more ground, but I'm guessing our enemy is going to try to shatter it as soon as it can." The canal stretched wider than what White Albums range would be able to reach in the limited time they had. "Take Trish with you and move towards land. You probably won't make it all the way, but it will give you some distance." With his instruction laid out, blades formed on his feet and Ghiaccio pushed off from the platform. He shot sideways at first, moving towards the edge of the canal as a path of ice stemmed out in front of him.

Gently Weeps flared to life. He turned on a dime, switching his momentum toward Clash. Fractals continued to grow out of the path he'd left behind. Trish and Narancia took the cue, rushing onto the bridge of ice.

Clash had taken note of the target skating towards it. It angled itself toward him and continued forward. The assassin would need to time this correctly - he could clearly make out the monster's rows of sharp teeth now. It was moving towards the surface and it would be upon him soon. He held his breath and traced its body with it's eyes. Empty red orbs seemed to stare back at him.

Water rose into a bubbling layer around the monster's head as Clash rose to the surface beneath the assassin. This was Ghiaccio's chance - before that wave broke, he froze the piece of it in front of him and shot forward. By the time it's jaws had left the brine, Ghiaccio was already half way down it's back. It's jagged teeth only caught his ghost. He was dead set on his goal. The force with which Clash had propelled itself out him would throw it out of the water.

As the beast's tail rose to the surface, Ghiaccio focused his stand on it. He watched as a glistening shell grew around the fin, stiffening it as ice further pierced into the creature's cells. He skidded past the stand as it's entire mass burst out of the water. The now-familiar sound of gunfire exploded into the air. Narancia's Aerosmith hovered above the canal. It's bullets cracked into the crystallized tail, blowing away chunks of the stand before it dove back into the water.

The beast shook beneath the waves. The loss of part of its tail was already impeding its movement greatly. Its first target had been too swift. It would need to change its plan of attack. Clash set its sights on the two stand users fighting to keep their balance on the thin floating bridge of ice Ghiaccio had created. Swishing its tail in a hasty attempt to shake off its injuries, it barreled towards them.

Ghiaccio turned to follow the beast. He'd target part of its head next. With its speed significantly hindered, he caught up with time to spare. Gently Weeps lowered a patch of the shark's skull to sub-zero temperatures. It was as if part of the creature had turned to glass.

Narancia gripped Trish's forearm tightly as he recognized the Clash's new path. They needed to move, quickly. Aerosmith swooped down in front of them, ready to chip away the next frozen patch. The boy pushed his heel into the ground and sprinted forward - only to find a weight behind him refusing to budge.

Trish stayed in place, her focus centered on the creature rushing her. The momentum Narancia had launched himself with wasn't absorbed by the ice. As he slipped forward onto his intended path, his hand was pulled from Trish. Only dull paths his fingernails had dug into her skin remained. Fear filled his veins with an immense pressure. Clash would be upon her any second now, and yet she stuck in place.

"Trish! If you don't move you'll-!" His words were drowned out by the volley of fire released from his stand. Pieces of their enemy shattered away, but it wasn't nearly enough to stop the creature from hurtling towards the girl.

As endless rows of teeth came to obscure her view, Trish heard nothing but the sweet whisper of Spice Girl. The reflection of her soul gave her words of encouragement. She knew her ability, and this was her trial by fire. As Clash leapt for her, she did the same, hurtling herself into the mouth of the beast.

Ghiaccio and Narancia watched in horror as she disappeared. The assassin propelled himself forward. If he got close enough, maybe he could freeze its jaw before it bit down. He could stop it somehow, he had to. He couldn't let Trish die. Frost streaked across the beast's side as he passed it by. The head was the most important part now. The stand's mouth began to clamp down. The space where Trish would be grew smaller with every nanosecond that passed. He reached out, willing his stand to reduce the world to an absolute zero.

But there were things beyond Ghiaccio's power. He couldn't bend space to bring himself closer to the beast's head, nor could he stop time. There was no way for the assassin to save her. He'd failed, and she was gone.

As the creature splashed back into the canal, it seemed to stall. It's jaw slacked partially. Ghiaccio's pulse stopped. Bumps, almost like bubbles jutted up between Clash's eyes. It's fins thrashed in the water and it's body curled into a stressed angle. The deformity on it's head pulsed upwards as a pink fist burst through the near-metallic shell of the beast. Clash writhed in pain. Spice Girl's onslaught didn't end. It continued tearing a hole in it's enemy until it had reduced the once mighty threat into a twitching mess. As Clash began sinking into the depths, Trish pulled herself from the hole she had rend in its body. With ease, she kicked her way to the surface and began towards the side of the canal.

Narancia and Ghiaccio stared on in shock. Forgetting to push himself forward, the blue haired assassin wobbled on the unsupported path of ice he'd weaved into the water. The motion brought him back to reality.

"What? What the hell!" The only words he could manage did little to convey the sheer disbelief and relief that were intertwined in his throat. He pushed himself forward as Trish reached the wall of the canal and began treading water.

"Could you help me up?" Her voice was just above a murmur, easy to miss even in the eerie silence that laid itself over the area like a silken sheet.. There was a splash behind them as Narancia dove into the water and paddled towards Trish. Ghiaccio climbed from the chunk of ice he stood on to the cobbled ledge before swinging a hand down for the girl to grab onto.

"What did you do? I thought I had watched you die." The stillness that surrounded the girl squeezed the energy from Ghiaccio's voice as he lifted her onto solid ground. She sat down immediately without offering an answer. The assassin turned to Narancia, who still bobbed in the water while looking up expectantly.

The assassin helped to lift the boy up as well. Trish took in a breath as if to speak before suddenly dropping it. She stared forward at the chunks of ice that still sat on the calming surface of the canal. Small waves broke against them, but they barely moved from their spots.

"That thing was sent by Passione's boss, right?" Her eyes stuck to the canal. They weren't focused on anything in particular, just the soft lull of the waves.

"Yeah." It was perhaps the quietest word she had ever heard Ghiaccio utter. A part of him had hoped that she wouldn't realize what the attack had meant.

But she was far too keen to be ignorant of the implications. She'd never tried to imagine what a life with her father would be like. The thought had surfaced in her mind many times, but at her core it was always something she'd yearned to deny. Everyday she spent without a mother or a home soured her view of her surviving parent further. But this spurred something far deeper than uninformed disdain. This was hatred that writhed and coiled like a snake. At its core, past sheer black knots, it held something else. A small drop that grew ever larger the longer she lingered on it.

Trish blinked, trying to clear the clouds from her eyes. She felt something trace softly down her gently flushed cheek. She could hardly belief the tear's presence. It seemed alien to harbor such an emotion now. Bitterness rested on her tongue. It's overwhelming citric flavor harkened her back to ancient memories. She tasted it first when other girls in grade school had made it clear that her style and attitude would never be accepted by them. Again when a boy who she'd fancied had crushed her hopes of any future together.

It stung and refused to abate. The taste of rejection was one that always lingered far too long. Why did it hurt her? She'd already chosen to refuse the idea of her father. He was illegitimate in her eyes. Even so, his decision to kill her rather than care for her felt like a stake in her heart.

Had this been his plan from the beginning? Was Buccellati's group to neatly deliver Trish to her grave? She wanted to believe in their innocence, in the warmth that the dark haired Capo had shown her, in the light that always burned in Giorno's eyes, and in the smile that Narancia wore whenever she was around.

"There!" A voice echoed from across the canal. All three sets of eyes snapped to investigate.

On the other side of the water, they saw a second Narancia walking toward where the ruins of the bridge. It was followed by two gangsters - one with long silver hair, the other clad in a hat that stretched to his chin. The copy in front of them stopped and morphed into a blue figure.

"Shit!" Ghiaccio ground his teeth. Why couldn't he catch a goddamn break today?

Narancia leapt to his feet, whooping at the arrival of his friends. Aerosmith materialized above him as he turned to face Ghiaccio.

"You're screwed now!" With his back-up on the scene, the runty gangster was ready to make his move against the assassin. His eyes moved to Trish. "Now that the others are here, we can escape! Let's go!"

Ghiaccio barely knew where to look. Threats surrounded him. He had little idea what the two men across the canal were capable of. Narancia's stand couldn't pierce his armor, but Trish could. He took a step back from them, sinking into a defensive pose. He was still exhausted from using Gently Weeps.

Trish sat frozen on the ground, barely able to believe the scene unfolding around her.

"Come on, we gotta get moving before this freak tries to pull anything!" Narancia's eyes flitted between the assassin and the girl. She stood up. Trish still didn't face him. Each movement was oddly subdued considering the tension that filled the air. Slowly she turned so that both boys were in her view. Her gaze was on Narancia. She took a step forward and swung her gaze to Ghiaccio. He inched back.

Suddenly Trish's legs tensed and she bursted forward. Electricity shot through Ghiaccio's body as he readied himself to block. Where would she strike? He watched her movements, only to find an open hand stretching toward his arm.

She ran past the assassin, pulling him with her. He stumbled as he turned and his mind raced to comprehend the actions taking place.

"We have to go. We have to go right now." Her words were sharp and commanding as she clutched the assassins arm, willing him to move faster. "You need to get us out of here." Ghiaccio would have time to figure out what was happening later - In the meantime he needed to act. Blades formed again on White Album. Swiftly he ducked down and swept an arm under Trish's knees. The other came to support her back as he lifted her up and pushed them forward.

Behind them, Narancia's expression dropped to a frown. Had he seen what happened incorrectly? Trish wanted to escape the assassin, right? And yet…

"Trish.." The boy sounded utterly defeated. He's arms slackened to his sides and Aerosmith's form wavered.

The girl didn't dare look back. She couldn't concern herself with what she might see if she or the fact that a murderer was carrying her. There were things that needed to be done, and the gangsters behind her wouldn't stop her. They wouldn't be passing her back and forth again.

This time, she would make her own choice.

* * *

"God damn it." Illuso muttered to himself as he worked. He hadn't expected to find Formaggio in this kind of condition. "Why do you always get yourself into these messes.." At first he'd been paralyzed. Sure, the initial do-or-die burst of adrenaline had kept him in the zone long enough to rescue his friend. But when he'd finally set him down and really looked at his wounds, dread crept into him. It felt like the coldest pair of eyes glaring at his back.

A good half of the assassin's lower torso just looked like a red mess. His first instinct was to put pressure on it. His second was to be sure to avoid hitting and organs that might have been lacerated. His third was dear lord, Formaggio is about to bleed out, please put some pressure on it.

So Illuso had shrugged off his vest and tied it around the redhead's midsection. The pressure would be spread evenly. Hopefully that was the right thing to do. He specialized in killing, not first aid. Illuso looked at his friend's face. His eyelids were fluttering. Formaggio hadn't said anything since Illuso had found him, but at least he was still semi-conscious. Back to work. The legs. God, what had happened to him? He could make out bullet holes, but his right leg was host to something else too. Something that had partially stripped flesh and muscle from bone.

Illuso grabbed the knife from his belt and got to work. He cut the legs of Formaggio's pants at the knee and shredded the fabric into strips. Illuso gently slid parts of hanging flesh back into place. Could he really do this? Just slap it back on and throw a bandage over it like tape? He'd have to; It was all he could do.

"The others are here." BabyFace observed. Illuso looked up at the creature. It's grin was starting to creep him out. The stand was sitting to the side of them. Observing and waiting. Melone had sent it along as a watchdog - and it had done it's job. Had the stand not been with him, he would have had to fight those gangsters for his friend. Illuso tied off another strip of fabric and wiped his hands on his pants. Crimson stains were nothing new.

Illuso's stand appeared next to the wide bathroom mirror as he stepped onto the countertop. Sure enough, he could see Prosciutto and Pesci outside. His hand pressed against the gleaming surface and it became a malleable. He slid his torso through.

"Took you long enough, I've got no idea what I'm doing." Illuso offered a hand to the blond first.

Prosciutto shrugged as he grabbed on and let the other guide him into the mirror world. As soon as his head made it to the other side, his eyes landed on the bloody mess on the floor. Illuso could read the discomfort in his face. He ducked out again and Began pulling Pesci to the other side. The bulkier assassin had a bit more trouble maneuvering his way through the mirror.

"Sorry if my first responder skills were lacking." Illuso offered.

"At this rate he's gonna die." Illuso's whole body tensed at those words. Prosciutto smacked a hand to his forehead and bit his tongue. He should have known not to say anything by now. He turned to Pesci and gestured for an explanation.

"Oh, um," The assassin looked between the two men. "Fratello is having some trouble talking right now.. Don't worry about what he just said." Pesci's words did little to relax Illuso. Death was too real a possibility, and having it vocalized just made the situation worse. Prosciutto crouched down next to Formaggio. His hand slid gently over one of the shot wounds and lingered there for a moment before the assassin cocked an eyebrow. No bullets. These wounds were inflicted by a stand.

"So what does he think?" Illuso turned to Pesci for an answer. The taller assassin looked down at Prosciutto and frowned.

"I think he thinks that the wounds are bad?" Pesci didn't know what to say. The blond usually did all the talking. He was better as back up muscle, really. Illuso didn't seem impressed with his translation.

Instead of lingering on his communication dilemma, Prosciutto got to work on the wounds. Illuso had been correct in beginning to bandage them. Formaggio's jeans didn't make for the most optimal material, but they would work. The motions came naturally to him, he barely needed to think about the amount of pressure he was using or how he was wrapping the wounds. His mind wandered slightly to the past.

Usually the men of La Squadra came back from their hits in fine enough condition. Generally, if something went wrong enough for an assassin to be badly injured during a job, they wouldn't make it back. It was small injuries that the assassins brought back to headquarters. A bullet wound, or perhaps a long red thread traveling down their arm from where they'd been struck with a knife. These were all dangers of the jobs. They knew how to treat themselves, but if it was too much trouble Prosciutto might tend to a wound for them.

Formaggio had always been troublesome. He'd leave for half a day and come back torn up by God knows what. The blond cracked a grin. Once the redhead had claimed that he'd gotten into a fist fight with a rat. Really Prosciutto had no reason to doubt that claim. He looked up from his work. Illuso had sat down across from him and was beginning to bandage Formaggio's other leg.

Every so often the dark haired assassin would look up at Prosciutto, searching him for something. His eyes seemed intent, almost calculating. The blond kept his attention of his work. Still, Illuso's gaze shook him a bit.

"Why can't you talk, Prosciutto?" Illuso's eyes were trained on him. Prosciutto scowled back. If he knew what was wrong he would have fixed it already. Frankly, he barely had enough time for his current task, let alone trying to figure out why the hell he couldn't communicate with his team.

The blond focused on his work. Formaggio's wounds had almost all been wrapped now. His eyes slid towards his team mate's torso. Illuso had tied his vest around the wound, but it needed more pressure. A part of him wanted to cling to that misstep that the dark haired man had made. Prosciutto brushed off the desire. He knew it was only an excuse for his own incompetence. He'd let himself fall under what was most likely the effects of an enemy stand, and Formaggio had been left to die as a result.

"I know something's wrong, so why won't you just work with me?" Illuso's words were more demanding this time. It was rare to see him raising his voice. Prosciutto wanted to respond. He had thousands of things to say. Words to defend himself, phrases to shut the other up. Apologies to issue. Pleas to utter to whatever kind of god was watching them.

Pesci watched the two from where he stood. The air inside the mirror was uncomfortable and thick with Illuso's discontent. The bulky assassin was clearly uneasy. He didn't know what to do or who to side with. Really he didn't want to take a side at all. Prosciutto was acting so strange.

"The mirror world is my domain, Prosciutto." Illuso lifted himself to his feet. From here he could tower over the blond. Was he trying to be threatening? That's certainly what it seemed like. "I know everything that goes on here. Stand up." He ordered. Prosciutto sat frozen. Baffled. Illuso was always so distant. Sometimes it seemed like he preferred the fringes. Had he finally been pushed over the edge?

Prosciutto was weary. He felt that he knew Illuso the least. The dark haired assassin always kept to himself. Despite the blonds prompting and prodding, he never really opened up. He just existed there. Still, he raised to his feet.

Why now of all times was he choosing to grow suspicious of his team?

If Prosciutto took up such a frame of thought, he would tear the group apart. His job was to communicate and keep everyone together. It made him feel like a nagging mother sometimes, but it was important. Illuso was someone who had been working with him for years. No, it wasn't fair to consider this man - or any of the others - mere colleagues. These were his brothers in arms.

Man in the Mirror appeared inches from Prosciutto. It's hands were on him suddenly. One held the side of his head, the other his left arm. The blond immediately tensed under its grip. He struggled against its strength, trying to break free from the hold. It's user strode to him calmly. Prosciutto let out a hiss. This wasn't normal. His eyes rolled to Pesci. He could see fear on his brother, plain as day.

"Relax, Prosciutto." Illuso whispered. "This is for your own good." The assassin raised his hands to Prosciutto's face. The left pried open his jaw, Man in the Mirror helping to force his head back. With the blond's teeth parted, Illuso could peer inside. His expression hardened. "There. I knew I felt something when I dragged you in."

The smallest edge of a Tentacle could be seen latched to Prosciutto's inner gums. Illuso raised his hand, ready to pluck the creature away. Suddenly Talking Heads writhed to life, squishing itself to the side of Prosciutto's mouth and slipping back behind his tongue.

"Shit, it's-!" Illuso hissed and turned frantically to Pesci. Prosciutto coughed as the creature slid into his throat, wedging itself into a ball and blocking any air from reaching his lungs. "Pesci, you need to use your Beach Boy, it's more precise than me!" Pesci's eyes widened as he inhaled a huge gulp of air. This situation had escalated so quickly, he barely knew how to respond.

"But- What if I-" He stuttered, looking between the two other assassins. Prosciutto was clearly in pain. The blond's gaze had tumbled to the ceiling as his free hand clawed at his throat.

"There's no time for this! If you don't act, Prosciutto is going to die!" Illuso's tone was increasingly severe. It only served to lock Pesci's muscles further. What if he ended up slicing Prosciutto's throat open? He'd choke on blood rather than a stand. What if he pulled Prosciutto's tongue out by accident? Then they'd just be in a worse situation.

Through the blocked gasps and writhing in his neck, Prosciutto gathered his will and centered his gaze on Pesci. Illuso was right, Pesci could make quick work of this situation. He just had to try. The bulky assassin caught his brother's eyes. There was a serene composure to them despite the situation.

Pesci wanted to reach that composure, to learn it for himself. He wanted to let Prosciutto know he was correct to believe in him for all these years. Beach Boy materialized in his hands. He drew back and flicked the rod forward. His expert aim landed the hook directly on the blond's tongue. It melded into his skin and slid forward, reaching down into Prosciutto's esophagus until it found Talking Heads.

Before the enemy could retreat further, Beach Boy's hook sprang from the lining of the blond's throat and sunk into its tentacled body. Pesci pulled back - carefully. Despite the stand's struggles, he drew it from Prosciutto's mouth and reeled it in until it hung helpless from his line.

"What the fuck!" Prosciutto blurted out with his first breath. He was panting slightly and rubbing his throat. The two others looked to him.

"We got that stand out of you." Illuso answered calmly.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were doing? I thought you were about to -" He cut off his sentence and groaned. Why bother. Illuso _had_ helped him in the end. His attention shifted to his brother, who was still amazed by the writhing creature at the end of his line. "Pesci." Prosciutto's voice immediately caught the other's attention. "You just saved my life. Thank you. It was really amazing."

A small smile cracked onto Pesci's face.

"Alright, let's get back to work." Barely paying mind to the struggle that had just transpired, Prosciutto crouched next to Formaggio again. Pesci found the actions to be a true testament of his brother's character. So sharp, so composed. The bulky man gleamed with pride and reverence as he shrugged off his coat and offered it as scrap material for bandaging.

* * *

Risotto stood his ground as the two figures approached. He would stay on defense for now. Prosciutto and Pesci had been given enough time to escape. If either of his foes made a move to follow them, Risotto would skewer them before they could pass him.

His eyes came to rest on the blond. Once again he was disturbed by the boy's age - He was still a child. This war zone was no place for him. Still, Risotto steeled himself. These gangsters likely intended to kill him. Their ages didn't change that, and he wouldn't let it happen.

Buccellati and Giorno stopped. They were about 15 meters away now - safely out of Metallica's range. They waited, eyes locked on their target. With a small nod from Buccellati, they began forward again. Slowly. Their actions radiated caution. The blond said something under his breath.

Risotto knew exactly what they were doing - They were testing the range of his stand. It was a potentially risky move, but they had numbers on their side. The Capo watched them. He could pick up information here too. As soon as they activated their stands and went on the offensive, he'd know their ranges. It was going to be an important factor - it always was. Metallica could only affect bodies within a couple of meters of him. If one of them had superior reach, it could spell disaster.

"You're not with the boss's guards, are you?" Risotto spoke up, interrupting the tension that had formed between them. He let the question hang, eyes grilling them for a response. The move the blond had pulled in Pompeii clearly wasn't an assassination attempt. Risotto had expected there to be some follow up - a stand induced side effect. But as time passed, he realized that this boy hadn't been trying to kill him before. There was something more to his actions. Risotto's eyes slid to the older of the two. He looked to be around Risotto's age, maybe younger. He must have been the one in charge.

"That doesn't matter. We're only here to take back what you stole." Buccellati's response was cool and precise. Ten meters. No sign of their stands yet. Risotto's ears prickled to a faint sound behind him.

"You mean who?" He spoke bluntly. Even if they were going to engage in some polite conversation, he wouldn't put on a friendly facade. "You shouldn't talk as if people are objects."

"I got my point across." Buccellati seemed to share his philosophy. Giorno had fallen back slightly, trailing just behind his Capo. Risotto took note of this. Six Meters. Someone would have to draw soon. Risotto's eyes slid to his right.

With a flick of his wrist, Metallica activated. The sound he's heard earlier had grown louder and louder. Now he could identify it as a reptilian hiss. The snake approached him from behind - But that didn't matter. A nail burst from it's body, pinning it in place like an eel about to be flayed. A moment of pride washed over Risotto. Whatever trick his foes had planned, he'd caught on. They were underestimating him.

Pain exploded in his shoulder. His eyes widened, searching for an answer. He felt as if a hot iron rod was being twisted through his muscles. Risotto brought a hand to the wound. Blood was already oozing through his jacket. His attention was split. They were five meters from him. They hadn't activated their stands. How had they landed a hit on him? Metallica rushed to the wound. Their tiny metal bodies flushed the affected area, scoping the damage and capping off his severed veins with metal. He couldn't let the first blow throw him off. This pain was nothing to him. A surprise, yes, but nowhere near what it would take to defeat him.

"I'll give you some credit for that one." What was the connection? Pesci flashed into his mind. Beach Boy. Damage done to Beach Boy's line was reflected back at the offender - could a similar rule be at play here?

He wouldn't have time to ponder it. With their first trick a success, his foes jumped into action. Giorno retreated backward as Buccellati's Sticky Fingers appeared behind him. Risotto took note of their movements and dug his heels into the ground. Risotto guessed that the blond must have some type of support stand. An easy enough technique to break. The dark haired man was going to rush in for a close attack. All he needed to do was make quick work of Buccellati, then he could hunt down the other with relative ease.

Buccellati had broken into a sprint; He wanted the first blow. Risotto readied himself, envisioning every vein in his enemy's body. The usual weapons came to mind. He'd start with the feet, Then he'd put pins in his joints to keep him from moving.

Buccellati ducked down suddenly. Just as he was about to move into Risotto's range, a zipper apperated beneath him. He yanked down the handle and toppled in, inertia throwing him almost too quickly for Risotto's eyes to follow. The Capo drew in a breath. His enemy had disappeared. He didn't panic. There would be a second phase to this, he knew it. But what could he assume about this stand? For now, all he knew was that his enemy had the ability to create zippers.

Zippers.

Risotto broke the situation into pieces. He'd lived through hundreds of attacks, surviving was only a matter of outwitting and overpowering your opponent. The assassin kept his eyes on the patch of ground where Buccellati had disappeared. It would only make sense for him to emerge in a similar spot.

The ground gave beneath Risotto's feet.

He tumbled downward into a pit that Sticky Fingers had planted beneath him. Before he had fallen completely into the hole, metal teeth gouged into his torso. They left tears in their wake as his body slid past their initial catch point. The assassin winced. The zipper drew itself tighter around him. It crushed into his chest and arms, threatening to sever them completely as the blunted latches pressed further into him.

"If only I could take credit for this idea." Buccellati's cool voice rang from behind Risotto. He had emerged from a zipper placed on a nearby wall. He strode closer to the Capo, hand trailing against the building's bricks. "But Giorno is really the strategist here." A zipper appeared where his hand lay. The dark haired man grabbed it's handle and slowly opened a pathway into the building. From the darkness within the portal, small creatures scuttled out. Straining his eyes, Risotto could see five of them. Five scorpions on a war path toward him.

He couldn't play a waiting game any longer. He couldn't attack the scorpions without hurting himself, and he couldn't let them reach him. If he didn't act now he'd be a fish in a barrel. Metallica rushed through his veins. Giorno. That must have been the blond's name. Despite the chaos of the current situation, it stuck in his mind.

Before the bugs could reach him, Metallica ripped open the teeth of the zipper. He may have been clueless to the natures of his enemies' stands in the beginning, but they didn't know much of his either. Buccellati was ignorant to the factor that would be his downfall: A zipper like this was within Risotto's domain of control.

That night in Pompeii, Giorno had only seen Metallica's ability to interact with blood. In truth, all metals were Risotto's to manipulate.

Buccellati's eyes widened in surprise. He wouldn't be allowed time to run - Risotto had already pulled himself from the pit. Sticky Fingers formed a new zipper on the wall - An escape route. Risotto lifted his hand as he cut the distance between himself and Buccellati. There would be no running. The zipper refused to budge.

Buccellati wheeled around, his face hardening as he resolved to follow a new plan. Sticky Fingers threw a punch as the assassin reached him. Risotto didn't care. He let the fist connect with his chest. The impact reverberated through him, but he wasn't deterred. This was just fine. He stood like a wall, the sheer difference in size between the two fiercely accentuated as the assassin looked down at his prey.

A dot of red dripped from Sticky Fingers' wrist. Another followed it. Buccellati's fingers twitched. The pain was instant and fierce. The gangster's eyes dropped to his own wrists.

Pins and nails stuck out at disorganized angles. They shone with an eerie glow as Buccellati's veins drained onto them and dripped to the ground below. The elbows were next. Risotto's face stayed stony. This time the shapes that erupted from his enemy's skin were twisted into corkscrews. He may have been an assassin, but he still took pride in his handywork.

Sticky Fingers' arms slackened with Buccellati's. Risotto moved in, grabbing him by the collar and forcing him back into the brick wall where his zipper still lay. The man coughed as the impact knocked air from his lungs. Buccellati fought to will his arms into motion. Tendons were severed, joints interrupted. He felt nothing but the dull pulse in his wounds.

"Before I kill you, I'd like to air a complaint." As Risotto hissed his words, a nail wedged itself behind Buccellati's kneecap. "I've never claimed to be a Saint. I am a killer and a criminal. But I'd like to know how the hell you sleep at night knowing you've dragged a child into the mafia." He drew Buccellati forward before slamming him into the wall again. "We're both going to hell. But you, you deserve a place beyond the seventh layer."

The silver haired man felt unbridled fury rising in his chest. He found little catharsis in beating his foe. Each word he spoke only served to further his rage. Was there a more cardinal sin? Inducting a child into organized crime. Putting them in life or death situations, forcing them to commit acts of violence. Were there more young lives at stake among this man's squad? The Capo prayed that Giorno was an outlier, that the rest were adults. As Risotto's hands curled tighter around Buccellati's jacket, he felt a fear that sunk in his stomach like lead. This man was responsible for what Risotto would have to do next.

Metallica slid the zipper behind Buccellati open. At least he could get some revenge here. Risotto shoved his foe's body halfway inside before forcing the teeth of the zipper together. They impaled the man in a line that divided his torso into distinct halves. They could only shallowly impale him, but that would be enough to keep him at bay. Buccellati's head hung out to the side. He'd been smart enough to focus his energy on moving his skull out of the teeth's path. His eyes bore into Risotto. They still carried a defiant shine.

"Don't," Buccellati began. The blood welling in his throat impeded his words. "Don't assume." Risotto found the sentence he'd struggled out pathetic. But Buccellati wasn't his focus now.

The accomplice had made an appearance.

Risotto turned to face the golden-haired boy. The scorpions that had been sicked on him had long since dissolved into crumbling bricks.

"I don't want to have to hurt you again. Once was enough." Risotto's voice was unwavering despite the wounds that dotted his midsection. "Back down now. Go home. Someone your age shouldn't have to be exposed to these types of things." His name rung again in Risotto's head. Giorno. The blond shook his head in response.

"You're a betrayer to Passione." Giorno took a step forward. "That's not my concern right now. What matters is that your actions are interrupting my dream and endangering my friends." Gold Experience apparated beside him. "I will fight you to the death to defend both." The stand's fingers touched down onto the bricked street. Gnarled woods roots sprung forth, bursting through the ground and reducing all in their path to rubble.

Risotto reacted without hesitation. The circumstances of this fight weighed on his heart, but he would do what he must. The life of an assassin was one devoid of emotion and remorse. Drawing Giorno's blood would haunt him, but he was fighting to protect people just as the blond was.

The Capo raced to circumvent the roots. As expected, their horizontal mobility was flawed. As the roots changed course, Risotto took his chance. Lifting his hand, the street below the two shook. Metal pipes burst from the ground, their wiry bodies contorting as they sprang towards the blond.

Gold Experience lifted its hands from the ground. Giorno watched the the street split open before him. His stand flew in front of him, readying their counterstrike. The blond pressed his ankle into the ground. He would have barely a splinter of a second to pull off his response. The tangled monster drug from below Venice would bear down upon him soon.

As it's shadow struck him, Giorno extended his hand to meet it. Like jaws of a demon, the pipes collapsed down upon him. The horde of metal twisted inward, condensing its endless limbs onto a single point. When the mass finally came to rest, it looked like the black scribbles of an angry child.

Risotto stared at the tangle of pipes where the boy had stood. Many times in his life he had had to suppress guilt. He'd learned this response so well that it now came naturally to him. The lives that writhed and flickered out before him left little impression on his memories. They blurred together. He didn't remember names or faces, nor the sounds of their voices.

Risotto tried to unearth one such memory. His last hit. The scenery was the most distinct aspect. Faces were blurry, and there was no noise. He felt deafened within his own mind. Each target had been so easy to forget, so inconsequential.

Yet in this moment he felt utter misery. The slightest shift of muscles brought his stoic expression to a frown. Mourning had always been foreign. Each death that dotted his life like a road map only left him feeling numb. The anesthesia of loss never cleared from his veins. A bright golden star extinguished by his hands. The Earth had moved him - or had he moved himself? Risotto would never know the path the blond had forged across the night sky.

A single yellow petal hit the Capo's cheek.

It was barely a soft kiss against his skin, but it was enough to interrupt his thoughts. A soft breeze brought another toward him. It's twins joined it, fluttering weightlessly through the air past Risotto. Sun danced on the world's breath as the sky filled with petals. His momentary entrancement was broken by the sheer nature of the occurrence. His gaze broke through to the epicenter of the blossom storm.

What once had been a twisted conglomerate of steel piping had turned to vines. Green slowly faded to yellow. The breeze behind it slowly blew the structure apart. Risotto's eyes widened. Giorno was sprinting toward him, almost upon him by now. The flood of golden petals had hidden the boy.

Risotto readied himself, despite the shock reflected in his eyes. Mere meters away, Giorno veered sideways, changing his approach toward the assassin to a curve. It didn't matter much to the man where he was - As long as he was close enough, Metallica would affect him.

Giorno knew exactly what he was aiming for. There was a gap between his target and the wall behind him. He could feel fatigue creeping up his body. His next move would put his life on the line.

The blond shot through the gap. Metallica flared to life, honing in on Giorno's body. Gold Experience's hand skimmed the wall.

As strength drained from his every fiber, Giorno threw himself out of the assassins range. Risotto's dark eyes shifted to where the blond lay collapsed on the ground. Pain was cemented within his expression.

This wasn't right. Risotto searched the figure frantically.

No blood. No needles. No Razors. His skin seemed paler than before, but outside of exhaustion he looked unharmed.

A sudden sharp pain split through Risotto's stomach.

The Capo's eyes dropped. A branch had grown from the wall behind him and twisted through his abdomen.

"There's a dream I need to achieve." The weak voice rang out from Risotto's left. Giorno pushed himself to his elbows. "I figured it out. Your stand. It's not just limited to controlling the metal around you." Giorno managed to kneel, turning to face the assassin. "The human body has trace amounts of iron in it. You're using that, that's what you did to me in Pompeii and to Buccellati here." His body still shook lightly. Giorno paused, giving himself a moment to recover. "I got rid of it - Just for a moment. I turned every bit of metal inside me into nanoplankton."

"That should have killed you." Risotto's eyes widened. The sheer outlandishness of the boy's plan was enough to temporarily take his attention off of the current situation. This was a hallmark of perfect synchronization with one's stand. Even with the pain that tore through his body, he couldn't help but respect Giorno.

He would only linger on that respect momentarily. The damage inflicted upon him was severe, but he wouldn't let it stop him. Metallica swarmed in his veins. Cities were built of metal and brick. There would always be an ample supply for Risotto to manipulate. His gaze hardened, trained on the blond. He could feel his resonance with every fleck of steel and iron in Venice.

"Whatever you throw at me, I will overcome it." The boy had pulled himself to his feet. He looked unstable, but the crystallized determination that shown in his eyes told another story. "My name is Giorno Giovanna and there is a dream that I am going to achieve."

There was a moment of stillness as the blond's words struck Risotto like an arrow.

"Giorno Giovanna." In an instant the fierce look in the man's eyes had disappeared. His gaze was no longer sharply focused on his enemy. An air of hazy disbelief and serenity seemed to descend upon him. His attention had drifted to the sky and he paid little mind to the gnarled branch impaling him. "I could never forget. Let me tell you a story, Giorno."

The blond refused to drop his guard, but he sensed that something in the world had shifted. It was as if the duel between them had been forced to a draw. Risotto's words had begun to ring against his ears like the notes to a long bygone song. The tune held an eerie nostalgia, and yet he could never place it. He glanced toward Buccellati. He was still caught in his own stand's attack. Eyes closed. Giorno silently prayed that he was only unconscious.

"I joined Passione ten years ago. The underworld was a fitting place for me - I'm not sure if I ever possessed the same humanity as the rest of the world." Risotto closed his eyes, resurrecting the faded memory. "Then it must have been five years ago, wasn't it? I was already a Capo. I had most of my men. I was known as a demon and a bringer of death. But I wasn't perfect, was I?" His eyes opened once more. Dark Sclera sank into Giorno, but they didn't carry the bloodlust that had become their norm. Deep inside them the blond could recognize a sort of abstract sentimentality that focused on him.

"Were you? I wouldn't know." Giorno spoke slowly. His enemy had completely dropped his guard. To seize the moment and take advantage of the opportunity now would be simple. He was within Gold Experience's range. But some phantom force willed him to remain at peace. The Capo's story was drawing him in for a reason that he could not comprehend. A part of the blond's soul knew that he needed to hear what Risotto was trying to tell him. It was a thirst that would become unquenchable if he were to silence his foe now.

"You of all people would know. I was going to be killed, Giorno. I'd made too dire of an error." Risotto searched the boy's face. "You've grown so much. You even changed your hair. I'm sorry that I failed to recognize you."

Giorno could feel his pulse racing. The adrenaline of the battle was one thing, but this feeling in the pit of his being was different. There was an answer somewhere within him, but he couldn't grasp it. He felt as if he was peering into a murky pond. Something shone beneath the waves, but the clouds of green and blue obscured it from him.

"You found me when moments before I was to be killed. You were still young then, perhaps you don't remember.. I was being pursued. I tried to hide in a patch of tall grass. I surely would have been uncovered, but then you arrived. The grass around me stretched taller as you saw my desperation. When the mafioso who would have slaughtered me addressed you, you lied to them. You saved my life."

Giorno was still. The revelation sank into him. Memories from his childhood engulfed him. Visions of his mother and the man who had often beat him. Children that harassed him. These terrors that had stalked his youth had been dispelled by the intervention of a stranger. He remembered this man as little more than a shadow. His naive mind had even once hypothesized that he was an angel, faceless and beyond comprehension.

And yet suddenly he could remember the features of that stranger in vivid detail. Silver hair, piercing red eyes, and a face that masked itself with stoicism yet clearly held galaxies more.

Giorno stepped forward. He knew that drawing any closer would put him within Metallica's range, but his fear of the other's stand had been cast aside. Risotto's eyes followed him as he moved. Pain still ran through the Capo's body, but his face only showed the softest shadow of a smile. The branch that Gold Experience had created burst into a storm of petals, leaving its victim to teeter and slump against the wall behind him.

Risotto drew a hand to cover the hole in his torso. Without the presence of the branch, he'd begun to bleed profusely. Metallica scrambled to cap each blood vessel. It could do little but prolong the eventual effects of the wound.

"Buccellati." Giorno addressed a man who could not hear his words. "I apologize, but I can not finish this fight and I will not allow you to finish it either." His voice was calm, barely above a whisper. The blond stepped closer. Steady and sure. Awes till enveloped him. He pushed Risotto's hand aside, revealing the wound he'd caused. The Capo submitted to the action, harboring no apprehension or distrust. Giorno laid a hand over the puncture in Risotto's torso. For a moment there was a struggle between Metallica and the new cells beginning to form, but on their user's command the stand dispersed.

Giorno had never been face to face with someone who had protected him. He knew not the things to say to a person one would consider a caregiver. There was certainly a haze of incompetence hanging in the back of his mind. It had been ages since he'd felt so unsure and juvenile, unable to muster a confident response. He let his head slack forward slightly, forehead coming to rest on Risotto's chest. All he knew was that he would work desperately to mend the wound his stand had inflicted.

"You can't be.. Giorno, after all this time you'd betray us?" The words echoed from behind them. Buccellati struggled to speak. His words were as soaked with a sheer disbelief as his suit was with blood. He fought against his wounds, trying once more to tear away from the zipper that latched onto him. Giorno closed his eyes.

There was a sense of relief that washed over him. Buccellati was alive. That in itself was wonderful news. But there was also a pittance of panic that bit at his toes. He had been caught helping their enemy. Surely Buccellati trusted him enough to know that there was something more going on, right?

Risotto's eyes rolled to look at the dark haired man. What Metallica had done to him certainly wasn't a pretty sight. Truly, it must have been horrific. But he wouldn't know, seeing as he'd been completely desensitized to even Metallica's most sadistic abilities. He released his control over the zipper. At this range he couldn't affect his enemy's blood, but he could still use his stand's magnetism. Without the support of the teeth clamping onto him, Buccellati slid down until his body was crumpled on the ground. He winced noticeably, drawing in short, sharp breaths. Everytime he moved he could feel his muscles tearing against the iron barbs that splintered his joints.

"Buccellati.." His gaze was fixed on his friend. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. Two of the most important figures in his life lay mortally wounded before him.

Golden Experience could only work so fast.

Giorno looked back towards the hole in Risotto's stomach. He'd only just begun to make real progress. The boy's eyes moved to the assassin's face. The man's gaze had followed his own to Buccellati. He looked weaker. Paler. A sizable chunk of his torso was gone - of course he was fading. Giorno brought his attention back to the wound, returning his hand to it as if it would will his stand into overdrive. He could feel his own pulse rising. Would he really be able to save one of these men, let alone both?

"Giorno," He felt Risotto's muscles tense. Steeling himself, the assassin slowly lifted himself onto his feet. The movement exacerbated the wound, causing more blood to rush toward it. Giorno stood with him, keeping his stand trained on it's work. "Bring me over there. I can't work from this far away." The blond's gaze snapped to Buccellati. What work did he have in mind? The boy's brow furrled. Nonetheless, he turned himself to face the same direction as the assassin and slung one of Risotto's arms over his shoulder.

Step by shaky step, the two made their way closer to Buccellati. Giorno could only help so much - The man towered above him. Risotto seemed like a giant to the boy. It made him feel small, childlike almost.

Once again, Risotto measured the distance between himself and his enemy. Five meters. Three, two. That would be enough. He collapsed to his knees. One hand over his wound, the other raised toward Buccellati. Giorno felt as if his pulse had deadened.

The pins and screws within Buccellati's limbs melted away. Beyond the sight of the others, they left tiny pieces of metal in their wake. Not shrapnel, but microscopic, intricately crafted canals. It certainly took focus to hammer out such precise details. As he worked to connect the bit of frayed blood vessels within Buccellati's body, he payed no attention to his own pain. It was as good a distraction as he'd be able to get.

Giorno watched in awe as Buccellati's tense posture slackened gently. It was nothing permanent, but it was a quick-fix that very well may have been saving his life. The man's blue eyes opened. Pain and fatigue still swirled within them, but there was a calmness to them now - an understanding.

Sticky Fingers appeared beside the Capo. It looked beaten and worn, just barely able to move toward Risotto. It was met by a subdued look of feral suspicion from the assassin. But the stand's movements weren't threatening. It was slow, careful. When it reached Risotto, it waited for a moment before raising a hand to the hole in his torso.

With a single upward swish, the remaining damage was pulled together by a zipper. Risotto grunted - skin and innards being suddenly forced together was understandably painful.

"Don't think anything of it." Buccellati warned. "Now that you're taken care of, Giorno can focus on his allies." The man stressed the last word, as his eyes met Giorno's. There was tension between them; an invisible stress and a need for communication. The blond simply gave a compliant nod and turned his focus to his comrade.

Risotto let out a breath. Slowly he lifted himself to his full height. Pain still splintered throughout his abdomen, but his condition had become much more manageable. His gaze lingered on the pair of gangsters. The impact and fate of five years burned through him. Silently he contemplated the path a single life had taken, how it had intersected with others and come to it's current point. There was a subdued chaos in his chest. A pang of sadness rung at the thought of Giorno's position within Passione. Despite the undeclared truce the men shared, shards of fury still endured when the image of Buccellati met him.

And yet, strung through it all like roots twining into infinite dark soil, he felt the cooling presence of pride. So long ago, Risotto had met a boy who was small and scared. The world around him loomed like fractals of glass, ready to slice him apart at every misstep. Yet that boy had persisted, and with the slightest aid of a faceless assassin he had been allowed to forge a shimmering path for himself. The capo saw the actions of the past reflected in the kindness Giorno had shown him today. The boy's heart was immortal.

But he needn't stay any longer. The moment in which their paths had crossed was wearing thin. Both had others matters to attend to. The present would usurp their yearning to uncover the past. With a final sigh Risotto turned from the two and departed. Silent, like a shadow cast in the night, slipping past the walls of an unfamiliar city and disappearing.

Giorno cast his eyes downward as Risotto left. If he looked upon the assassin now, he may have been compelled to follow. But his loyalties to his friends bond him to his task.

"We have things to discuss." Buccellati's voice was softer than the boy had expected. "Things have gone awry and we need to rethink our procedure."

"You mean in regards to those assassins?" Giorno questioned.

"No, everything." Buccellati clarified. "The boss, Trish, Passione, all of it. We won't survive if we keep this up - And we can't keep the truth from the others forever." Giorno was silent. The stress of the situation shone clearly on his face. As Golden Experience continued its work on his friend, he considered his next words. The faces of his comrades ran through his mind like a slideshow. Narancia. Mista. Fugo. Abbachio. None of them knew of the hidden task the two had undertaken. For too long now they had let the others sit in wretched ambiguity. The truth would be paralyzing, but no worse than their current situation.

"So we tell them then." The blond whispered. He knew very well the risks such an action harbored.

"We could end up alone. Are you willing to face that reality?" Buccellati asked. Giorno paused to contemplate.

"Yes. I'll walk this path alone if I have to." His eyes gleamed with determination. "But I trust them. They're our brothers, aren't they?"

Before Buccellati could answer him, the sound of shoes hitting brick rushed towards them.

"Christ, what the hell happened to you?" Abbachio's voice betrayed his sharp words. It was soaked with concern. Mista stood next to him, gun drawn and eyes vigilant. Behind them, Fugo stood with one of Narancia's arms draped across his shoulder for support. Both looked as if they'd seen better days.

"Thank god you're all here." Their Capo released a sigh of relief. His eyes scanned each of them, taking in their battle damage. A slight pang of failure stabbed his gut. Trish wasn't with them. Fugo recognized his disappointment instantly.

"Buccellati, I'm sorry.." He began. He didn't know the details - only the things Narancia had sputtered at a mile a minute as they'd regrouped and made their way over.

"She - Trish, she's not coming back." Mista picked up where the blond had left off. "I don't know what they did but, but they changed her. They must have! She had the chance to come with us but.." Mista paused. Frustration was knit on his face. He was still trying to make sense of the story he was recounting. "She didn't want to. I don't understand why, but she didn't want to." His volume had begun to increase. Buccellati digested the information he'd been given. It didn't seem to shock him in the way his men had expected. Fugo and Narancia exchanged a worried glance.

"I see." He began. "I think I may be beginning to understand why." He cleared his throat and strengthened his gaze. "And Sheila?"

"She won't be working with us anymore." Fugo's eyes moved to the ground as he spoke. Guilt swirled in his stomach, evoking a dry nausea.

"That's alright. She was a bit of a wild card from the start." Buccellati wanted to ease the boy's fears. Having had Fugo as his right-hand man for so long had given the Capo deep insight into his mind. He knew what the blond was thinking. He knew how these things weighed on him. Giorno helped Buccellati to his feet. Golden Experience had healed him to a point of stability. "I'm sure you all have a lot to tell me. We all have many things to discuss, and right now there's no clear point at which we should start. So if you'd allow me, I'd like to address you not as your boss, but as a man who is offering you his sincerest apologies."

Unease spread across his group's faces like a plague. Giorno remained composed at his side. He would support Buccellati no matter how they responded.

"In truth, those assassins," Buccellati began. "Are after the same goal we are."


	11. Fedeltà

"Goodness gracious, you two have certainly seen better days." Murolo's sudden presence in the bell tower was eerie. Tiziano's head whipped around. His pulse had already been racing, but the man's sudden appearance had thrown it's beat into an erratic tantrum.

The guard bit his lip. He felt almost unable to respond. Panic was overflowing inside of him. Dread and mourning swirled beside it as he clutched his partner's body. Squalo lay limp in his grasp. His ginger hair had been stained a deeper red when chunks of his skull had been bashed apart. Tiziano wanted to believe he still felt a pulse, that the gaping wound in the head of his companion wasn't a death sentence. He clung to the shaking he felt in his hand. The throws of denial he found himself in were enough to blur the clear fact that it was caused by his own frayed nerves and nothing else.

"It might be about time you give up on your friend there." Murolo craned his neck, trying to peek past Tiziano to get a better look at the man he was holding. "You've got more work to do, and we certainly won't get anywhere if you keep clinging to dead weight."

Dead. The word hit the guard like an iron pike. He'd wanted to keep that word from his mind, to banish it and never let the possibility of it's truth soak into him. Murolo frowned as Tiziano grew stiffer.

"Though I suppose I should give you two a moment. I can count my blessings while I wait - Awfully lucky that those assassins took out that nasty Clash for me! And not just them, the boss's daughter too! What an incredible show!" Murolo marvelled. The drama that he'd just witnessed was what he lived for. "I didn't know she had it in her, but really I should have expected nothing less from someone sharing the blood of a devil." The man chuckled and shook his head.

Tiziano had long since stopped listening. The words that concerned him had come earlier - What work was left to be done? He'd failed. He would die from the wounds he sustained here or be executed by his superiors. Without Squalo, he was weak. He could do little to serve as a member of the elite guard squad. Whoever the man before him was, he knew this. He knew too much.

"What do you mean?" Tiziano couldn't hide the tremor in his voice. "Who are you?"

"Ah, you're ready to talk now? Well then," Murolo cleared his throat. "I'm a friend of yours, Tiziano. I'm in charge of knowing about all the going ons in Passione, and I just need you to help me with that!"

"No one knows everything about Passione-"

"Precisely, and that includes you." Murolo clicked his tongue. "Arrogant kids like you are a dime a dozen. You have no respect for anyone and you go on tangents without even thinking. You're just a guard dog. A well groomed one, but a guard dog nonetheless!" He adjusted the brim of his hat, internally reminding himself to get back to the point. "No one knows everything about Passione, therefore no one could know if someone knew everything about Passione."

Tiziano wasn't one to get lured into an argument, and this was no exception. He may not have known the man standing before him, but years of service in Passione had taught him to never underestimate a foe. His hand curled tighter around Squalo's limp arm. The ginger had always been the more rash of the two.

But with what had happened today, he couldn't find fault in his partner's actions. How could he have known that the boss's daughter had a stand? One capable of such destruction no less. He wouldn't bemoan the mistakes of Squalo, he couldn't bring himself to. It was a cruel twist of fate. Just another unfair slant in the structure of the universe.

"As it turns out, you have to do a bit of work to stay up to date." Murolo stuck a bony finger out toward the guard. "That's where you'll be helping me. A few questions, then I'll help you be on your merry way."

* * *

A tangible tension had come to rest in the room. It swirled between the four like the ocean waves; It connected them, yet pressed them apart.

The expression Trish wore today was unlike any other that the assassins had ever seen on her. Her eyes were trained dead ahead - she wouldn't let them drop to the floor or drift askance. There were things she needed to say. The task seemed impossible - colossal - but by now she'd overcome far worse.

Risotto had stood to meet them when she'd arrived with Ghiaccio. It took mere seconds for him to realize the changes between them. The boy's actions weren't those of a guard watching a recaptured prisoner. He seemed to be shrinking away from her ever so slightly. Ghiaccio's body language was far from subtle, it painted a clear change in dynamic. Risotto would need to act accordingly.

"I see you had an exciting day." Risotto gestured towards the broken window. He could have just as easily called attention to the drenched clothes that clung to her frame or the disheveled tangle that was once a carefully styled updo, but perhaps it was better to wait for an explanation there.

Trish nodded in response. The Capo knew that he hadn't offered the greatest opener, but there much to say and no good way to say it. A myriad of questions floated to the forefront of his mind, but it was obvious that this was not the time to demand answers.

He was already exhausted. The events of the day played on a continuous loop in his mind. Each new detail his men brought him only added to the chaos. Just moments ago he and Prosciutto had come to the conclusion that Trish was gone for good - she had escaped and would never return. Briefly he'd considered sending Illuso to search for her, but the chances he would capture her again were slim and the dark haired man was already shaken over Formaggio's state.

When Risotto had first seen the dark haired man, he had assumed that it was Illuso who had been harmed. Streaks of red decorated his clothes, accumulated from time spent toting Formaggio's mangled form.

Needless to say, when he found out the state of the true victim he'd felt a weight drop to his stomach.

"I.." The single syllable stretched on for longer than Trish would have liked. It brought Risotto's focus back to the situation at hand. The Capo's eyes briefly flicked to Ghiaccio. His glare was trained on her as he kept a measured, cautious distance between himself and the boss's daughter. "I have some things I need to ask you." She gulped and crossed her arms. "I expect answers."

"Then ask." Trish blinked. Was Risotto serious? Was he daring her? The wall of a man was impossible to read. Every word he spoke was utterly dry and somber. Decoding anything hiding behind the surface was impossible.

Trish took a deep breath, calming her nerves that were on the brink of panic. Each time they had spoken, Risotto had shown a surprising respect for her. Judging by precedent, it wouldn't make sense for him to suddenly change his disposition.

"So. Your main goal here is to murder my father. The Don of Passione." It was more statement than question.

"Yes." Risotto nodded curtly. "That's what we want."

"Alright. Just wanted to get that out there. Second question: Your intent was to use me as a lead, but that didn't work out so I became a hostage right?"

"That's true as well." As Risotto answered, Prosciutto frowned. To him it seemed that they were giving Trish quite a bit of leeway. It was dangerous.

"And what would happen if it turned out I was useless as a hostage?" This question was more pointed than the others. Trish's brow had creased and her lips pursed after finishing the sentence.

"This is ridiculous, there are more important things that need our-" Prosciutto raised an eyebrow as he began his rant, only to be silenced by his Capo's perturbed glare coming to rest on him. Words crashed to a halt immediately at the clear reprimandation.

Risotto's focus centered once again on the girl. The shallow breaths she pulled in were barely enough to feed the flare of fear and defiance in her chest. Ghiaccio lurked near the door. His eyes had left the scene inside the room. At the moment he preferred to look out into the barren hallway.

"Would you kill me?" Trish's question was just above a whisper, but it was more than enough to cut through the silence of the room. Maintaining eye contact with a rogue assassin after asking such a question took every inch of courage she held. He gave no clues to his thoughts, no sign of what answer he might give.

This was a possibility that Risotto had grappled with before. When it became apparent that Trish held no clues about her father's identity, the Capo had had to rapidly change plans. At the time he hadn't been able to fathom a reason that she might not work as a hostage, but he still considered it. Every possibility needed to be covered if they were to survive. He already knew his answer.

"No. I'd tell you to leave."

Trish froze. A sense of relief was crawling up her spine and prickling at her neck, but she couldn't give in too it. She couldn't allow herself to feel any bit of ease yet. Could she even trust Risotto? Truthfully, there was a part of her that respected him. He was honest with her and treated her like a human, despite having no true obligation to. To Trish he was the most familiar and reassuring - which seemed contradictory to his overall appearance.

What about the other two? The blond who Risotto had interrupted wasn't too terrible. He was strict with her and a bit uptight, but that could be chalked up to the stress of the situation. Well, maybe it wasn't her place to make excuses for him. But in the hours she'd spent drifting in and out of sleep in the back of his car, she'd caught pieces of the conversation he'd had with the assassin named Pesci.

He seemed different at that time. Calmer, more tutor than mafioso. Throughout the drive to Venice Prosciutto had shared facts about the Jazz albums and artists he'd played through the car's speakers. The bulkier assassin had nodded along intently, asking questions whenever something peaked his interest or he thought Prosciutto might just want to talk further on a topic. Their conversation flowed naturally, the pattern of speech between them was familiar and their roles well-defined.

If she was going to do this, she needed to remind herself of those traits. She needed to see the humanity behind the lethal facade and accept the truth of it. Over time it had become clear that these men weren't simply looking for a paycheck. If this was a cold, detached money grab, things would be different. They were fighting to protect each other - They probably had no other option at this point.

No one had been abandoned. Not Melone when his arm was lost, nor Formaggio after the myriad wounds he'd sustained. There was no such thing as dead weight.

Trish hoped she could use that to define all of them. After all, her contact with the assassins had been fairly limited. She had begun to piece together portraits of a few of them, but others remained mysteries. Could she really believe someone was good without completely remembering their name?

She didn't have time to study each of them, she would have to act now. The girl had come this far. She was willing to gamble on the judgement of others, even if they could easily be mistaken for villains.

"And what if I didn't leave?" Trish's words were stern. She waited to see the the assassins' reactions, feeling as if she were testing the temperature of water.

Risotto's brow furrowed. He wasn't angry, but he clearly didn't like her response. He was dismayed - obstinate perhaps. The Capo turned her sentence over in his head. He hadn't misheard her. Maybe he was misinterpreting?

"No. We'll be gone without a trace. You can stay here if that's easiest for-"

"I meant I'm not going to just leave if you tell me to." She cut in, claws ready and confident. "I don't mean the hotel, and I don't mean Venice. I mean this whole.." She gestured to the two men in the room and to the boy in the hall. "Situation."

If Risotto had been surprised by her interruption, he refused to show it. But his expression had changed: It had hardened as Trish spoke. He now resembled a viper. Slowly he rose to his feet. His menacing form blocked the light that streamed in from the broken window, casting a shadow over the girl. Darkness was cast into his features, nearly melding them into the black hood that adorned his head.

Trish felt tinier than the day she'd been abducted. Intimidation was a natural skill of Risotto's, something he'd mastered even before joining Passione. Even as Trish fought to hold steady to the fact of his humanity, she couldn't help but feel an urge to flee. His current actions painted him as a demon. The light pushing past the sides of his figure wasn't holy or soft, it was a glaring juxtaposition to his being. He was a splash of black ink running down the portrait in front of her.

"This isn't the world you belong in." Risotto's heavy voice made the statement feel more like a command.

"Well then I guess it's too bad I was born into it." Trish raised a hand to her hip and looked up at Risotto. This was the first time the assassin had truly tried to scare her, but she felt almost used to this behavior. She was at least familiar enough with it to not let it completely unnerve her.

Risotto was taken aback by her sudden boldness. Whatever had happened today, it had changed her. He examined her, more carefully this time. She wore minor scrapes. Bruises were slowly darkening on her skin. They could be signs of an altercation, but they could just as easily be inflicted by trying to navigate the environment in a panic. It wasn't likely that she'd tried to fight with Ghiaccio - This wasn't the type of damage White Album left behind.

Aside from that, it would take more than a fist fight to change someone in such a way. Considering her bloodline, Risotto had a theory of what may have taken place.

"You don't understand what you're trying to do." Risotto paused. What Trish wanted was inane. It went against what her basic instincts should have been telling her. "And yet, we are in no position to deny you a place here."

"WHAT?!" Prosciutto exclaimed from behind his Capo. The sheer shock of Risotto's sudden surrender proved to much for him to suppress the outburst. Trish was similarly surprised by how easily the man caved. Her features softened into a look of astonishment, but instead of lingering in disbelief like the blond, she quickly moved to a smile.

"Do you have a complaint?" Risotto looked back at his comrade. He considered his decision final, but that didn't mean he wasn't open to criticism from the man he trusted most.

"Risotto, have you lost her mind? This is-" Prosciutto brought a hand to his head, fighting to decide which problem to point out first. "She's the boss's daughter." He raised a hand and lifted one finger. "She's supposed to be a hostage. And for god sake, she's a little girl!" When he'd finished, he had raised three of his fingers. "How the hell does any of this add up to a good idea?"

"Something tells me you may be underestimating our friend. But you're right, she was our hostage. Now she's not. We were the ones who kidnapped her in the first place, so do we really have any right to say no if she now wants to stay here by choice?" Risotto was calm as he spoke.

"I just think it's dangerous, Risotto. I know you can't honestly be blind to how this could go awry." Prosciutto crossed his arms and reached into his pocket to retrieve his cigarette case. Risotto closed his eyes and nodded in response.

"Of course." His attention turned back to the boss's daughter. "Trish, I don't know on what grounds you've made this decision, but I need you to know what you're asking to become a part of." The girl nodded. Her smile dissolved, leaving a look of intense focus on her face.

Risotto combed a hand through the hair that stuck out of his hood and sighed. How could he even begin to explain the horrors Trish might see? The danger she could be putting herself in? Was he really able to allow that? Of course, she'd already been exposed to some of it. Mostly after effects, but those would still give her a pretty good idea of what his squad faced on a daily basis.

"Trish, this is something that will leave a stain on you if you get involved with it. Our work is hell, and with our current status as traitors, we're even despised by the underworld. As the boss's daughter, you get a free pass out of here if we're defeated. If you begin to sympathize with us, I can't tell what effect that could have." As the assassin spoke, Trish cast her gaze downward.

"That's the thing though, I'm not going to get that kind of treatment." She balled her hand into a loose fist. Risotto waited for the girl to continue. "They- He wants me dead. The people who came after us couldn't have sent a more explicit message." She paused. "That's why I needed to know what would happen when you found out."

Risotto's features were solemn. He and his teammates hadn't had time to conference about what had happened yet. Ghiaccio had slunk back to the door way at some point in the conversation. It was a rare sight to see him so quiet. Under most circumstances he had no qualms about throwing his two cents in.

"Ghiaccio, can you confirm this?" It was likely that the boy had seen what had happened, perhaps he had even been directly involved. The blue haired assassin looked up from the patch of carpet he'd been staring at.

"Yeah it's.." Ghiaccio's arms were crossed. He looked uncomfortable. "It's just like what she said. They went after her with intent to kill.

"And you're sure they didn't just fail to recognize who she was?"

"There was no mistaking it." Ghiaccio shook his head. "Given the opportunity to go after any of us, she was their first priority." Risotto raised an eyebrow.

"Any of us?" He questioned before waving off the statement. "No, we can discuss that later. Trish, I'm sorry." Risotto raised a hand to the side of his head. It wasn't the death of their main lead that troubled him.

The revelation, in Risotto's eyes, had increased their sins tenfold.

"Uh, thanks, I guess." Trish's posture softened. "But you already apologised, so you don't have to do it again?" There was no clear way for her to respond. The situation felt awkward.

"No, this is different. It's all different now." Risotto turned away from her and moved back to where he'd previously been sitting. "Members of our team were originally responsible for finding out about your connection to the boss. We started all this. We're the ones who put your life in danger." Risotto's wounds still ached from the battle he'd endured merely an hour ago. He was sore. He was bloodied. Giorno had helped to heal him, but the boy had only been able to get his wounds to a point where they weren't fatal.

There was a new addition to his colony of pains. A deep sinking in his chest. A hollow, steel cavity being dug out from within him. Trish's eyes followed the man. Truthfully there was a bit of comfort in how seriously Risotto was taking the matter. But that didn't relieve the sense of anxiety within her.

"I mean.. I kinda thought you guys were the ones putting my life in danger from the start?" The girl shrugged. This didn't change things for her. The chasm between their reactions to this information really only made the situation feel clumsy. Maybe she'd just had more time to process.

But then again, this was going to be awkward. It was going to be strange, and a bit uncomfortable. Getting used to that reality now would be better.

"I know this is all really strange, but I think it can work and I think it makes sense." Trish began her explanation, leading Risotto to turn his head toward her. "Really I'm glad. This has gone well so far, I think."

"I think it's a stretch to say this has gone well for you at all." The assassin cut in. "I can't see why you'd want to stay in this situation."

"Right, I was getting to that." Trish rolled her eyes. "Listen to me for a second. Do you know about Sea Anemones and Clownfish? It's 'symbiosis.' Usually Sea Anemones will attack anything that gets too close, but not Clownfish. The Anemone actually protects the fish. Get it? Outside the Anemone Clownfish have a lot of predators - Sharks, for one." She pointed at Risotto. "I'm already too deeply entrenched in this mess to leave. If I did, Passione's boss would surely send hitmen after me. But you guys are the mafia's natural enemy now."

"Well." A slight grin appeared on Risotto's face. "You _have_ thought this through. But I have to ask, what makes you think you're going to get a group of highly trained killers to act as your bodyguards for free?"

"First of all, you already accepted it." Trish met his grin with a smile of her own. "Second, you obviously feel guilty about this whole mess. Third, who said anything about free? Why don't you ask Doctor Freeze over there what I did to that shark?" The Capo gave Ghiaccio a questioning glance. The boy was obviously upset by the nickname, but quickly shook his head at his Capo and mouthed ' _long story._ '

Risotto Nero was not a man who enjoyed being out of the loop. It was his job to be up to date with information concerning his team. This sort of allusionary back and forth annoyed him to no end. His mind sprinted through a hundred different scenarios. No matter what the truth was, Trish's implications were clear.

"Hold on." Risotto gestured for her to pause. "I don't exactly know what you're talking about, but if you think you're going to be involved in any violence, you're wrong." Trish furrowed her brow. The assassin wasn't joking, he was dead serious.

"If I need to fight I'm going to." She protested.

"If you're so worried about safety, you'd be wise to avoid the battlefield." Risotto's tone had become stern. The way his heavy baritone filled the room made it clear that there would be no arguing with his decisions. "Protect yourself, but don't turn reckless."

"Fine." Trish sighed. It was strange how casual the conversation had begun to feel. The girl turned on her heel and took a step towards the room's exit.

"Where are you going?" Trish froze. Risotto didn't sound angry, but there was certainly something akin to annoyance in his voice. "You still have a lot to explain. If you want to be a part of this group, even in the weakest sense, you're going to follow orders and contribute like everyone else." The girl crossed her arms.

"Look, I'm just going to get some ice." She breathed out. "My lungs are drenched in salt water right now, so I want something refreshing to drink. Is that alright?"

"Go on then." Risotto shrugged.

Trish continued towards the door, satisfied with the answer she'd received. Ghiaccio had left it ajar when he's slunk into the room. As she clasped the knob, the ease with which the door swung open struck her.

Little force was needed to get through this time.

* * *

Fugo felt as if his consciousness had been forced from his body. He felt hazy, like his mind had splattered across the wall. Dripping hues of thought soaked into wallpaper as he desperately tried to tie together reality with threads of logic. Nothing made sense. But it did, it made complete sense. What Buccellati had told them was the unequivocal reality.

His mouth felt dry. He looked down at Narancia, who sat at the table next to him. The boy was biting his nails, staring downward. To see him so insanely focused on a single point - in this case, the cup of coffee in front of him - was far from normal. Jagged tips were beginning to form at the ends of Narancia's fingers as he indulged the nervous habit.

A mangled piece of nail fell into his cup.

"You need to stop that, you're just going to end up bleeding." Fugo's voice was flat as he spoke. Disbelief stung and challenged him. They were no longer affiliated with Passione. When they'd lost Trish, they'd lost their privilege to live. Narancia paid Fugo no mind. "Are you even listening? I said stop that!" The blond's voice began to crescendo. He could feel his chest shaking. Their decommissioning wasn't the worst part of the current situation. Their Capo had been actively conspiring with the new recruit and planning treason.

They wanted to orchestrate an entire coup. They were insane.

"Stop biting your fucking nails Narancia!" Fugo's hand shot forward, clamping onto Narancia's wrist and knocking the boy's hand into the cup of coffee. A sharp crack pulsed against their ears as it clattered from the saucer and splashed across the table. Abbacchio's eyes snapped towards the scene. The pathetic little bar was too small for him to avoid their ruckus, comprised of only four tables and a half wall that divided the rest of the space from the bar itself.

"Fugo, what the fuck!" The dark haired boy grabbed Fugo's tie, his jagged nails scraping against skin in the process.

"You're being disgusting!" He hissed. Fugo wasn't sure if the shaking in his hand was his own or Narancia's.

"And you're being a dick!" Narancia pulled himself from the other's grasp and stood up. Coffee had begun to drip through the slats of wooden table. The boy rubbed his wrist and glared at his friend.

"Christ, could you both be quiet?" Abbacchio rubbed his temples and slumped against the wall. "Just make your goddamn choice. Stay or go before Bruno gets back." The two boys had paused their squabbling to listen to him. Fugo's eyes fell on the door.

Buccellati and Giorno had left after revealing their true intentions, stating that when they returned their next steps would begin. Their Capo had always been a kind man. He'd told them that they were no longer under his command, that they had no need to listen to him or even to feel obligated to stay by his side. His actions now gave them a chance to leave. They wouldn't need to confront him. They were free to go, and there was no need to make it feel like a betrayal.

Mista had walked out of the bar almost immediately after Buccellati and Giorno had left. He hadn't said a word, and Fugo had been too shocked to speak. Out of everyone there, Mista seemed the least likely to hold loyalties to Passione or to fear what might happen to them. As he had left, even Abbacchio had turned his gaze away.

But was Mista really wrong to go? By leaving, Mista was giving himself a shot at life. As things were, their entire unit was a failure that Passione would eventually need to wipe out. With the coup that Buccellati was planning, they'd rise to the top of the hit list.

Fugo stepped away from the table. He felt light headed. Soon the empty spaces in his brain would be flushed with a migraine, he could always feel them coming on. He crossed the creaky floor and laid a hand on the doorknob.

"I'm leaving, and I think you all should too." His shoulders were tight. Fugo wanted to face the others to give his statement, but something in his heart wouldn't let him.

"Don't tell me what to do." Narancia mumbled as he raised his feet onto his chair and hugged his knees to his chest. The door closed behind Fugo.

The day was too bright outside the bar, bringing on the pain in his temple faster. The blond raised his hand to shield his eyes. Where was he supposed to go? The streets of Venice were foreign to him. Even if he found a map, what would his destination be? Up until now, his place in the world was wherever his gang was. That was no longer an option. It's not like he could go home - that was definitely of the table.

Where else had he existed before Passione? There was a University that he'd been expelled from. A prison cell he'd been abandoned in. The only location that didn't feel cold and grim to him was his Grandmother's house, but it had likely been resold or demolished at this point.

"Hey, you're not really about to leave, are you?" The voice cut Fugo from his thoughts. He looked down. Mista was leaning against the building, his legs crossed under him to stay in the shadow of the overhang.

"What are you- I thought you left?" Fugo was incredulous. Part of him had already accepted that he'd never see Mista again.

"What?" The teen raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that? Fugo, that would be stupid." The blond blinked.

"You do realize Passione wants us dead, right?" Fugo questioned.

"Yeah so?" Mista shrugged. "Who cares about Passione? People always want us dead. People inside the mafia attacked us just last week, and we were still members back then."

"But that was different, those were just thugs." Fugo retorted. "The boss will send real trained killers after us this time!"

"Dude, we're real trained killers." Mista rolled his eyes. Fugo was his friend, but the guy could be unbearable sometimes. "That's our job description, and there's strength in numbers. That's not even what matters most." Mista paused. "Buccellati." He gestured with a flat hand as he said the name. "If it wasn't for him, I'd be rotting in a cell right now. I'm with Capo all the way, Giorno too. Fugo, you can do whatever you want, but personally I think you need to turn that brain of yours off for a minute, stop over thinking, and make your decision."

Fugo looked away. He couldn't convince Mista of anything - He wasn't even trying to right now. Maybe he was right. Not thinking about it went against everything Fugo believed, but so did this entire situation.

The teen took a deep breath before joining Mista on the ground. He laid his back against the wooden door. It's paint was chipping, and if he moved at the wrong angle he would surely get splinters. Fugo turned his gaze toward the city. Cobbled streets. Tall faded buildings. He felt a faint anxiety creep over him, Giorno and Bruno could appear somewhere among them any at any moment. What was going to happen then? He felt a hand grab his arm.

"I know I said turn off your brain, but I didn't mean forever." Fugo gave Mista a confused glare. Wasn't this what the other had wanted? "If you lean against the door, someone's going to hit you. Plus if you sit in the sun like that you'll get all red like a lobster." The teen motioned for Fugo to join him in the shadow of the awning. The blond complied, scooching toward the other.

The two boys sat in silence for a time. Thousands of thoughts and concerns zipped through Fugo's head. Meanwhile, Mista seemed oddly tranquil. He pulled out his gun and began polishing it, taking care to inspect every inch. To him these actions were natural. He trusted Buccellati and Giorno. There was nothing more to it in his mind.

Fugo didn't lack trust in his leader. He feared hypotheticals. Probability, logic, and caution ruled his life. Every moment needed control, that was what he strove for. The current situation felt like chaos, and it put him on edge.

But in that moment he was glad to have Mista by his side. The presence of another human would keep him from panicking. Here he was grounded. Had he gone off on his own, Fugo might have already been overwhelmed.

"Hey," Mista straightened up. "They're back." The blond followed his gaze. Sure enough, the familiar forms of Giorno and Buccellati had rounded a corner and were heading toward them. The two teens stumbled to their feet. They could feel their Capo's eyes wash across them. Buccellati was doing his best to conceal any emotion. Still, Fugo could see traces of his true feelings - Not fear, but something akin to it. Something lonelier.

"Is it just the two of you?" Buccellati's voice was strong. It wouldn't betray his feelings.

"No," Fugo blinked, realizing what the scene must have looked like. "The others are just still inside." As the sentence spilled out of his mouth, he couldn't help but be transfixed by how quickly he was settling back into his normal role. Buccellati visibly relaxed as he answer.

"Then I'll grab the others and we can begin." He pulled the door open and stepped inside. The frame emitted a loud creak as the door swung shut behind him. Fugo turned back to Mista.

"Why did you come out here in the first place?" He questioned. "We all thought you had left."

"What?" Mista furrowed his brow, insulted by their assumption. "They really thought I'd leave? That bar just gave me the creeps, okay? I didn't like it's vibe." The boy shook his head and turned away from Fugo.

The blond couldn't understand why the place had shaken him. Sure, it was old and a bit run down, but they'd been to such places in the past. All the place consisted of was a bar, a dividing wall, and a seated area of four tables, and-

Ah.

* * *

"Formaggio is doing as well as he can be right now." Illuso leaned against the wall of the hotel room. "Not great, but alive." He'd felt restless since returning from the rescue mission. Their enemies were still somewhere out there, and they'd made an excellent show of brutality. Melone and Illuso had joined the rest of their squad - bar Formaggio - to report on everything that had happened.

"Internal bleeding is our biggest concern right now." Melone chimed in his analysis. The blond's posture suggested fatigue, but his expression made it clear that he was more than willing to work through a bit of drowsiness. "He could easily have some organ damage, but it's hard to say how extreme the problem is. I'll keep tabs on him for now." Risotto nodded.

"It's good to see you on your feet. Thank you." With their recount, a full picture of the day's events had finally formed. The attacks seemed less planned out than he had initially guessed. The squad led by Buccellati was certainly the other branch of Assassins working under Passione, but their approach felt all wrong.

Snuffing out another squad was done quick and dirty. There was no need to press for information. Passione had it's own branch dedicated to interrogation, so why had the girl Illuso spoke of put Formaggio through such harsh questioning? It went against the job, it allowed for mistakes. Risotto had done this sort of job himself. A unit in Genoa had been embezzling money and he'd been tasked with their deaths. The procedure was a tight one that had to be handled strictly.

Stranger yet was the mercy and even compliance they'd been shown. Those who met with Risotto and his men and allowed them to live were signing their own death warrants. It was all too uncanny.

"We're going to need to move as soon as we can." Prosciutto gnawed on the unlit cigarette in his mouth. "There are too many enemies here. They could be planning their next attack right now. They could already be at our doorstep."

"If they're here I haven't seen them." Illuso commented. He'd been using the mirror world to keep tabs on the entire building. The homunculus that Melone had created earlier had yet to be destroyed or dispelled. For the time being, he'd left it to continue his scouting inside the mirror. It seemed to be one of the more compliant creatures made using Baby Face, but Illuso knew to be wary of its free will - Especially considering an old sample of Formaggio's blood had been used to create it.

"No, we're going to stay where we are." Risotto's words carried his resolve. It was clear that he had already made his decision, but the idea still put his squad on edge.

"Mind giving us an explanation?" Prosciutto challenged. "That doesn't really sound like the best course of action when we've got Passione hot on our tails."

"I'm not totally convinced of who our enemy is." Risotto responded. "Parts of what happened today seem more coincidence than plan." As their Capo spoke, Trish appeared in the doorway. The gathering of ex-mafioso discouraged her from entering - listening from here would be just fine. "The one's that we know were looking to kill us have already been taken care of." Risotto's eyes fell onto Trish as he spoke. By now the other's had already been made aware of their alliance. How things would play out from here was a mystery.

"We may not know for a fact that the other group's goal was to wipe us out, but they could still come for us at any moment." Prosciutto stressed.

"Then let them come." Risotto said his piece with utter confidence. "They only damaged us before because we were spread out. If they want to attack us all at once, we'll let them walk into that massacre."


	12. Trattativa

"I fold." Ghiaccio smacked his hand of cards down against the desk before leaning back into the plush office chair.

"I'm starting to think you don't actually know how to play this game." Melone teased. The blond tapped his cards against the table. Throughout the course of their games he'd taken to laying his hand in a neat stack when he wasn't directly interacting with them - He found it a bit clumsy to try reaching for something whilst also carrying his cards.

Now that he felt lucid and capable of doing tasks on his own, he was noticing the changes that would need to be made to his habits. Even operating his own stand had become difficult. Melone had noticed a few small changes to his control panel when creating a homunculus, but time had been of the essence and he hadn't had a chance to ponder them.

"We've done this a million times. I think I've caught on." Ghiaccio spat. The boy's tone didn't have the same harsh bite that it usually held. Melone doubted that Ghiaccio himself had noticed it, but the blond had certainly taken the change into account.

"Whatever you say, Caro." The term of endearment provoked a displeased grunt from his friend. Melone grinned before turning to Illuso. "And you?" The dark haired assassin leaned against the wall, looking over his cards.

"I'm still in, but.." Illuso glanced towards the doorway - the group had taken to leaving their doors open since they were the only guests in the hall. Just beyond it's frame he could see Trish peering in at them. When she caught his gaze, she turned away and disappeared down the hall. "Should we do something about her?" This cycle had repeated many times now. She would observe the group, but ultimately seemed to nervous to actually approach them.

"Hm?" Melone craned his neck towards the doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl. "Again? Warn me sooner next time, ideally before she runs off. I haven't gotten a single chance to talk to her this entire time." Ghiaccio shot Melone a look. The blond turned to face him with a frown. "I knew she'd be interesting! But no, god forbid we pick her brain!"

"Melone, the problem is that when you say things like 'pick their brain', sometimes you mean it a bit too literally." Ghiaccio crossed his arms as he spoke.

"So you admit it." He set his cards down and pointed at the boy. "You were interfering!"

"What?" Ghiaccio furrowed his brow. "Don't be stupid." The boy grunted and turned his eyes away from the others.

"You've always been a terrible liar, Ghiaccio. It's alright, I'll forgive you anyway." Melone stated with a dubious amount of sincerity. "Though I am curious of your reasoning - Could it be that you also realized how interesting she would be? Were you trying to keep her for yourself?"

"If you don't shut up I'll stuff you full of painkillers again, I think I liked you better when you were catatonic!" Ghiaccio growled.

"So harsh! But I expect nothing less." Melone clicked his tongue and looked back to his cards.

"Guys." Illuso nodded toward the door again. "Seriously, we might want to do something."

"Let's do something then! I already said I'm not opposed to the idea." Slight exasperation cracked through Melone.

"We could move our game into the mirror world, I suppose.." Illuso began.

"No no no. That's an incredibly boring idea." Melone waved his hand at the dark haired assassin. "I meant like, next time you see her invite her in. We could use another player seeing as Ghiaccio is so terrible." Illuso glanced at the door, clear hesitance written on his face.

Melone looked his comrade up and down. Illuso had never been the most outgoing of their squad. It had taken him months to even get to the point of playing simple card games with any of them. When Melone had first been recruited, he'd felt slightly suspicious of the man. Well, Melone naturally felt suspicious of most people, but out of everyone in their unit the feeling had been the strongest toward Illuso. Back then he spent most of the day hidden away from the rest of the team, be it locked in his room, away from headquarters, or in his mirror world.

But Illuso had joined La Squadra before him, and at the time Melone felt he lacked any sort of superiority that would give him the authority to question the other's behavior. But eventually Formaggio broke through to Illuso and he became a more active member of the team.

"Alright, alright, I'll do it myself." Melone pushed himself off the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Wait, you're actually serious?!" Ghiaccio's attention snapped to the blond. "Melone, you're the only one that wants her over her!" The boy's complaints fell on willfully deaf ears as his friend strode to the doorway, giving only a quick shrug before peering out into the hall.

"Hello!" Melone's voice rung out, causing Trish to whip around and stare at him. She had only retreated a few feet from the doorway, and the sudden confrontation flustered her. Still, this was a good thing, right? The barrier between herself and the circle of assassins was beginning to break, and she didn't even have to be the one to start a conversation.

It would be great if she knew what to say.

"Hey, what was your name?" Her brow wrinkled. Why had she chosen something so rude to start? Her throat felt dry. She could feel pangs of panic rising in her chest as she desperately searched for an attempt at damage control. "I mean- I don't think we've really met. Sorry." She blinked, averting her gaze from the blond.

"That's alright, it's to be expected considering the chaos." Melone maintained a cheerful smile. The girl seemed as nervous an injured animal - wishing to flee, yet trapped by circumstance. Right now it was imperative that he lower her defenses, and a sunny facade worked best for that. Smile at a human and even if they were frightened or hated you, a small part of their subconscious would react positively. "My name is Melone. I wanted to invite you to join us, if you're not busy that is."

"Join you for what?" Trish's posture softened as the initial surprise wore off. She was hesitant - Melone could still plainly see that much. He still knew so little about her. He excelled at extrapolating data from even the tiniest gesture. The twitch of an eyebrow, the rigidness of one's stance, the way hands were positioned - each held a wealth of information. But to gain the trust and cooperation of someone in Trish's situation would take more than some simple alterations to his body language.

The problem was, he had few clues as to what it would take. He'd hoped to talk to her sooner, but the past week had been more than a little hectic - He'd been less than fully conscious for a chunk of it as well. All he had to work off of was scraps of details picked up from his teammates. Ghiaccio had plenty to say on the subject after what had happened, but the light he chose to cast Trish in was neither glowing nor trustworthy.

"Idle chat and a game of cards, if you'd like." Melone continued to speak in a soft tone, one that would never betray his true nature and position as a man whose job spilt blood on his hands.

"Sure." Her response followed a moment of hesitation. The presence of these assassins still evoked a dull fear in her, but exposure therapy was her best option, wasn't it? She took a cautious step towards the door, eyes centered again on Melone. He stood aside to welcome her into the room, posture relaxed and warm. "Oh, and it's nice to meet you." Hints of discretion were still laced in her words.

Beyond the doorway the glares of two other assassins met her. Ghiaccio was very clearly far from pleased, the scowl resting on his face a sure sign of his disapproval at her entry. The other watched her from the corners of his half-lidded eyes, shuffling a deck idly. Their cold reception made her muscles seize. The atmosphere pushed her back, leaving Trish unable to take another step.

"Oh, you two can be so dreary!" Melone chastised from behind Trish. He drew closer behind her, waiting patiently to enter. She quickly moved out of his way.

"You really think we're the ones worth lecturing?" Ghiaccio grunted. "We didn't agree to a tea party." Illuso's eyes settled on the boy after his comment.

"Didn't she beat the shit out of you?" The dark haired assassin inquired, causing Ghiaccio to whip around and face him. "I heard something like that." Illuso averted his gaze, choosing to inspect the full body mirror he'd propped against the wall instead. "Anyway, I need to go out and patrol again." Without another word, Illuso slipped into the mirror.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Ghiaccio fumed, frozen in place after the other's cutting comment and swift retreat.

"I suppose that's to be expected from Illuso." Melone smirked and turned toward Trish. "Don't worry about it, he just takes a while to warm up to people. This one though," he nodded toward the boy still sitting near the desk. "I'm not sure if he ever warms up, so please just do your best to endure his outbursts."

Trish nodded. The room felt notably emptier after Illuso's departure, but no more welcoming. Again she found herself at a loss for words. Melone's expression was still pleasant. He leaned next to the door, expectant and waiting for her to speak. This was a perfect chance to begin familiarizing herself with the group she'd forced her way into, but she had no clue where to start. Unlike the other times she'd addressed the assassins, there wasn't a pressing topic that she specifically needed to be heard on.

"I guess we're just totally different kinds of people.." Trish threw out the first observation she could think of.

"I'll say." Ghiaccio snorted. The girl's eyes shot to him. It felt strange trying to converse in this kind of environment. Just hours ago they'd been able to cooperate fine, yet now just being in the same room felt awkward.

"It's to be expected. Besides, isn't the difference in our experiences interesting?" Melone chimed in, staring at Ghiaccio in a manner that bordered on threatening. "Speaking of which, I've been wondering about some of the details of your life - if you don't mind me asking that is." The sweet tone of his voice was meant to be disarming, but his intent was too clear for it to sway Trish's demeanor.

"Sure, but if it has anything to do with Passione's boss, I have nothing to say." She spoke in a pointed deadpan. "He really wasn't involved in my life at all. I got nothing. End of discussion."

"Of course." Melone's facade did not falter. "Still, I'm curious about what kind of life you led up to this point."

"I'm not really sure what you want, I mean," Trish crossed her arms. "It was a pretty normal life."

"But don't you think an 'ordinary life' is exactly the type of thing that people like us miss out on? We're just curious about the experiences that have passed us by." Melone gestured to Ghiaccio. "Take him for example. He can barely even remember his life before this organization. He was inducted as a child!" Trish's brow wrinkled. A mafia was bad enough, but a mafia that hired children? Discomfort at the idea was clearly etched on the girl's face.

"Hey." Ghiaccio snapped. It had taken him a moment to process what the blond had said. "That's not how it happened and you know it. If you go around spouting that kinda shit it's going to reflect badly on Capo!"

"Alright, alright." Melone cleared his throat to bring Trish's eyes back. "He wasn't an assassin as a child, but he still hung around our little nest of criminal activity."

"That's not your info to give away, Melone!" Ghiaccio quickly rose to his feet. "For fuck's sake, would you stop dragging me into this?"

"And what about you? What were you doing as a child? Were you at school? Where did you live? What kind of foods did you like, and has your palate changed since then?" He totally ignored his friend - knowing full well that the other was likely too tired and grumpy to actually do anything about the slight.

Meanwhile, Trish found herself lost in the barrage of questions. Could this man really be that interested in her? It felt off - Well, the whole situation did, so she was finding it hard to determine what exactly she could consider normal.

"I was going to school like any other kid, I guess." She looked between the two of them. "Did you both miss out on an education, or just him?" Ghiaccio prickled at the question.

"Don't just assume that I'm an idiot, it's not like I never learned anything! It was just more like being homeschooled, okay?"

"Homeschooled by the mafia?" Trish raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, listen. You should really know this by now but the mafia isn't a singular person, there are all sorts of people in it." The boy spoke quickly, his voice a front of exasperation. "And some of those people might just happen to be half decent at teaching."

"Alright, but how did you end up here as a kid in the first place?" Trish would rather cut to the core of the issue than let him go off on a tangent. He grit his teeth as she spoke.

"Why do you think it's your place to barge in here and start questioning us? Risotto only agreed to let you tag along because he pities you, so don't go getting haughty!" Trish crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto her left foot.

"You want to say I'm the one 'getting haughty'? You could be dead in the water right now if I hadn't stepped in to help you." The girl's confidence was quickly returning to her. "I'm trying my best here, so you could at least try to be civil. And you know what? You guys already subjected me to quite a bit of questioning, so I'm going to return the favor."

"She has a point, doesn't she?" Melone grinned at his friend, who'd begun grinding his teeth audibly.

"It's not like you weren't part of the problem!" Ghiaccio grunted.

"I wasn't actually. I never got to supervise our friend - And that was your doing, right?" Melone pointed at the boy. "You wouldn't even give me a chance!" Ghiaccio stiffened at the accusation - Melone was right, after all. In the end it had been a pretty blatant move.

"Stop making up weird stuff like that!" He denied. "You're just trying to mess with her, is that it?" His pounding embarrassment stifled any ability to construct a real retort. He hadn't considered any consequences at the time, what was there to care about? His eyes whipped around the room, never focusing to long on one point. He couldn't have predicted an actual confrontation.

"I don't really recall you mentioning why you went ahead and messed with the schedule… I do have some guesses though." The blond was in utter joy watching Ghiaccio panic. "What do you say, Trish? Would you like to hear them?" The girl jolted as attention landed once more on her. She looked between the two assassins before relaxing and allowing a small grin to slip onto her face.

"I think I would like to hear your guesses, Melone." Truth be told, she was enjoying this too. Suddenly seeing them as not just real people, but as her teammates was still jarring. But having a say in the situation - holding enough power to make Ghiaccio squirm - it felt good.

"Hold on!" Ghiaccio spat. "There are definitely more important things we should be focusing on right now!"

"Don't go trying to change the subject just because you're embarrassed." Melone teased. Before he could continue, the mirror propped against the wall rippled, and Illso's head and torso swiftly emerged.

"Whatever this is will have to wait." Illuso's voice was notably louder, carrying more stress than his usual reserved words. "Those kids from Passione are back. Everyone get down stairs immediately."

The atmosphere shifted completely in less than a second. Melone and Ghiaccio both had snapped into sober, prepared moods. The two nodded, and without a single word rushed toward the door.

Trish blinked, still recovering from the sudden whiplash. She stepped towards the door, wondering how one might formerly prepare for this sort of confrontation. She had Spice Girl, but no real weapons or armor beyond that. She'd barely made it a foot towards the door when Illuso spoke again.

"Not you. Risotto wants you to stay here." The girl stopped in her tracks. Illuso retreated into the mirror as Ghiaccio and Melone disappeared down the hall. Trish was left alone, wondering where she stood.

* * *

A thunder of footsteps followed by suppressed panting marked Ghiaccio and Melone's arrival. Prosciutto gave a small nod and nothing more. He trusted that they knew that this situation shouldn't be taken lightly. He turned his attention back to the elaborate entry of the hotel. Risotto stood just beyond the doors. His back was too Prosciutto, but it was clear that his arms were crossed. His posture was strong and stiff - one could easily mistake him for a statue. He looked across the square that stretched in front of the Hotel. A group of six stood their ground in front of him.

"They haven't made a move yet?" Melone whispered, hoping Prosciutto would break from his intense glare to fill them in on what was happening.

"No." Prosciutto's eyes didn't move. "They made their presence known and they've done nothing since." Their opposition had kept just enough distance to conceal any of the finer details of their actions. Every so often it would be clear that they were speaking amongst themselves, but it was impossible to tell what they might be discussing from this distance.

"We're just going to let them make the first move?" Ghiaccio hissed from behind his teeth.

"The first strike isn't always advantageous." Illuso leaned against a lobby wall, arms folded in front of him. "Striking first means having a plan. Ideally, a good reaction can tear that plan apart and provide an opening. You should know that by now."

"I do know that, but Capo's already-" The boy dropped his sentence as all eyes turned toward the motion outside. Two people had splintered from the group to approach Risotto.

He was unflinching as they approached. The man recognized them instantly; Giorno and the gangster he had sworn loyalty to - Bruno Buccellati. His eyes narrowed. Their body language did nothing to suggest maliciousness, but it was far too early to assume they didn't bare ill will.

Slowly the distance between the parties closed. Risotto had already measured their stands' ranges. His muscles tensed as they drew ever near, ready to jolt to life if the need arose.

But the pair stopped dead in their tracks, only six meters from where Risotto stood.

"We'd like to request an audience with you." Giorno's crisp voice rang out. His words felt entirely too formal for the setting, yet Risotto could not find them unnatural coming from a boy with such an air about him. The capo waited. Considering their request with a stony face. He would demand patience in return for any reply.

"You want to talk with us?" In this moment, Giorno was his enemy. He did not want to fight the boy again, but that would not stop him from carrying out the duties and position his team needed of him. "For what reason?"

"Any conflict between our parties will only result in mutual bloodshed and stunt both our abilities to reach our goals." Giorno was unwavering.

"You're trying to negotiate peace?"

"Yes, though we are under the belief that there is potential for other mutually beneficial deals between us." A smile adorned Giorno's face. He certainly knew the key principles of manipulating emotions.

Risotto considered the offer. Mere hours ago their group had been on a warpath, wanting nothing more than to tear his team limb from limb. Not only had they gravely wounded Formaggio, they'd come too close to leaving Risotto fatally wounded as well. Still, he had to take into account Giorno's - and even Buccellati's - intervention. It was true that they had been able to agree upon a ceasefire before.

"Fine. You may proceed." Risotto granted the allowance but refused to soften is stature.

As the pair in front of him stepped forward, he raised a hand to stop them.

"No." Risotto's eyes narrowed. "He's not welcome here. Giorno, you may proceed so long as he stays behind." His attention remained on Buccellati. If he dared to move any closer the assassin would consider it a threat.

"I understand." Giorno nodded and strode forward. His actions weren't slowed by hesitation or doubt. He scanned the faces of the assassins waiting for him beyond the building's entrance. It was unlikely that they'd all been briefed on what had played out between himself and Risotto earlier, and yet they all wore serious expressions. They knew that now wasn't the time to rack their brains over their Capo's actions and words. Carrying out orders came first, explanations second.

He was truly dealing with professionals here.

As he stepped inside, Giorno noted the distinctly different atmosphere this group exuded. Even with Risotto's invitation, the hairs on his neck still stood. He was willingly walking into a den of sleeping wolves. A single signal from the alpha and they would effortlessly tear him to shreds. They felt uniform and frightening - exactly as Passione's former top execution team should. Perhaps it was a matter of age or simple experience that set them so far apart from Buccellati's team. Giorno's companions weren't incompetent, but measured against this team they almost felt like amateurs. The boy held his ground, meeting no one's eye.

Outside, Risotto was hesitant to turn his back on the enemy. It seemed that Buccellati and his men intended to wait until Giorno returned. There was still the possibility that they were waiting for the most ideal moment to launch an ambush. Still, the Capo didn't want to waste this opportunity. If Giorno wanted speak with them, he would hear what the boy had to say.

Cautiously the man retreated into the hotel, ears straining to pick up any footstep or shift of position. None came, and he let the heavy doors lock into place behind him. The eyes of his team hit him immediately. They waited in anticipation, seeking explanation and their next move.

"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me." Giorno spoke up first, turning to face Risotto. "Ideally the others would have joined us as well, but I understand that this alone takes a phenomenal amount of trust."

"If you'd wanted to kill me I'd have died hours ago." Risotto shooed away the blond's formalities. "I owe you far more than polite conversation."

"I see, but I want you to understand that I'm not here only for myself - I hope that I can act as an ambassador." Giorno's voice was as carefully tended as a trained diplomat's. The dissonance it created when matched against his age and position as a recently recruited thug was enough to catch the attention of all the assassins.

"And what is it you want to negotiate?" The Capo maintained his stern expression. He knew little about his enemies, and the only thing that he could imagine they might be after was utterly off the table.

"After today's events we've decided that it would be better for our units to be on speaking terms rather than blindly brawling over any differences we may have. Our groups are not so different, so I believe we can come to an understanding." Giorno continued.

"We may have similar traits, but that doesn't mean we aren't representing opposing sides." Risotto spoke with conviction. He respected Giorno and held the boy no ill will, but his squad came first. "Negotiating like this is already dangerous for us."

Giorno's gaze shifted away from that of a cheerful representative. He could play the role of himself now, the heart of the issue easily exposed.

"Your perception of this situation is far from the truth." Giorno spoke as openly as before, but his tone had changed - It was lower now, more direct. "Speaking with me me does not equate to speaking with Passione. It couldn't be further." The boy shook his head. "Though it was unofficial previously, we've cut our ties with Passione. We will not act on their part or for their prosperity, it's quite the opposite now. Before I was even inducted into their organization, I already had a single goal that I knew I had to pursue. Sharing our powers is the best way for me to reach my goal and for you to reach yours." Risotto's intense eyes stayed fixed on him. He remained silent for a moment after Giorno had said his piece.

"Your goal. What is it?" The demand wasn't threatening, but it carried impact nonetheless. The blond had worn a smile throughout the conversation, but now it changed from a pleasant courtesy to one of resolve and confidence.

"I will overthrow Passione and become the new Don."

* * *

Trish didn't like this. Being left by herself in this room.

Pangs of familiarity refused to leave her mind. Had things really changed so much? She wanted to trust their decision - There was logic in it after all. It could be assumed that Bruno and his team had returned to take another shot at collecting her. Going along with the others was too much of a gamble. Things could go wrong too quickly.

Trish dropped onto the hotel's bed and let a heavy sigh escape her lungs. She'd managed something quite impressive earlier in the day, but truthfully, this world of stands was new to her. It was an easier fact to face in the quiet stillness of a room inhabited solely by herself. The trials of the day sunk into her shoulders. Her body was heavy, strained by everything she'd endured. This was truly the first time she'd let herself unwind. Even after facing off with Risotto and being officially accepted by the assassins, she'd still been on high alert, careful, constantly thinking about her next move.

Would Bruno and the others prove to be much of an issue? She hadn't been with them long enough to understand their powers. Hell, she barely understood the abilities that her allies possessed. She would admit it, Risotto's order had been correct. She needed rest and training before she flung herself into the fray. Still, she felt a sense of duty now. The girl had gained autonomy, and she wanted a direct hand in guiding her own fate from here on out.

The sudden chime of the hotel's phone broke through the clouds in her mind. She jolted, pushing herself up from the clump of blankets she'd been lying in. The ringing continue. Three chimes before another brief silence. He eyebrows furrowed. She'd only ever stayed in a hotel once or twice when she was young, but still the phenomenon struck her as odd.

The third set of rings began, reminding her that there may only be moments left to satisfy her curiosity. She scrambled across the bed, more knocking the phone off it's hook than picking it up. The curled cord stretched out as she pulled the device to her ear.

"Hello? Who is this?" Trish's words were commanding, though she couldn't help letting a bit of her incredulousness bleed through the wire.

A fuzzy silence met her. Certainly someone was on the other end, no dial tone greeted her.

"Speak or I'll hang up." She declared.

"So it really is you!" A gruff voice suddenly made itself known. "Just the girl I was looking for."

"Excuse me?" This wasn't right. How did this stranger know who they were speaking to? "You still haven't answered my question. Tell me who you are."

"No need to be so defensive, I'm a friend after all." The voice gave a light chuckle. Trish's mind sped. It sounded like it belonged to a man. Too old to be anyone from Bruno or Risotto's squad. "I've been keeping tabs on you for months now and yet this is the first conversation we've had. It's a shame, you know." The girl's blood ran cold. "But kids these days don't really value real conversation as much as they should, do they?"

"What are you talking about?" The strength in her voice began to diminish as paranoia crept over her like a hoard of bugs, their legs pricking her skin as they crept closer and closer to her brain. "What do you mean 'keeping tabs?' Are you some sort of stalker or-"

"Trish, I know for a fact that this is far from the most shocking thing you've dealt with today. I have a lot to do, so please respect your elders and let me speak. I have very important information for you to pass on to Risotto Nero." He paused. "That shouldn't be a problem in light of the new arrangement, correct?" She could practically hear his grin.

"How do you know about that?!" Her eyes snapped across the room. The man on the other end of the line had to be watching her from somewhere. Had they been followed?

"Look. I'm just a well informed man. Now listen. Passione's boss is really starting to see you as a threat now. He's fleeing to Sardinia as we speak. Get there fast, and secure your target. I'll be generous and tell you this too - You're going to want to avoid a fight this time. The body guards he's brought along with him are nasty. Good luck then." The voice had changed to a cheerful tone in a fraction of a second.

There was a click on the other end of the line. Trish was left alone in a cold sweat. She felt paralyzed. So much energy was rushing through her body, yet she couldn't move an inch. Even now, even after every hurdle she'd managed to pass and bend to her advantage, she still had to be a victim off this feeling. It was a deep creeping fear, as if her own being was an ocean and something terrible and grim was slowly clawing its way from the depths of her stomach.

Just minutes ago she had believed that everything was well managed. The group from Passione was still on her tail, but she believed these assassin's to be more than capable of handling them. They were on her side now - or rather, she was on theirs, and by her own volition no less.

But her perception had been shaken again. Of course there was more to this. She felt like an idiot for ever believing things would be clear cut. At the moment, she had no idea what was going on. The voice who had barked at her from somewhere beyond miles of wires was a blank spot in her comprehension, a previously unknown factor in this giant game that her life rested upon. Simply gaining powerful allies wouldn't be enough. If she wanted to win, she would need to unravel everything; This phantom informant, how they were spying on her and others, and most importantly, her father's identity.

Trish gnashed her teeth together. The scale of everything weighed on her. She slung her arm over one of the bed's posts, her nails sinking straining against the hardwood as she fought to keep her balance. What resources did she have? Would it even be possible to fight her way out of this corner? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to shake the doubt from her mind.

Things were different now. They kept changing and would most likely continue to, but for the time being there was one fact that she could hold on to. This burden wasn't hers alone - So many others were after the exact same answers she was. People with experience, people with resources. She couldn't forget the progress she'd already made. The girl drew herself back onto steady feet.

Right now her mission was to report the information she'd received to her Capo.

* * *

"It's nice to meet you two." The boy offered his hand to the two men. A friendly smile shone on his face, despite the minor pangs of anxiety that itched in his brain. The others were slow to respond. They looked to each other before one of them begrudgingly took his hand, his grasp light as if some sort of grime covered it.

"The pleasure is ours." Cioccolata's words stood in stark contrast to his actions. The person before him was nothing at all like what he had imagined - He didn't look more than 25, and his composure seemed too genuinely kind for him to be the underboss of Passione. His Eyes were large, giving him an innocent facade. To Cioccolata, it was disgusting.

But he had no place to question the boy.

"Sorry about how weird the situation is, nothing like this has really happened before.. Well nothing on this scale I guess." Doppio released the guard's hand and rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey, this should all be over pretty quickly though! We sent some of our best after them, so I'm sure things will be cleaned up in no time."

Cioccolata and Secco exchanged a look. They weren't exactly fond of how roles had been distributed - They were stuck babysitting while Tiziano and Squalo got to track down the enemy and rip them to shreds.

"Of course. It's an honor that we've been trusted with your protection." The crooked smile that stretched across Cioccolata's face was far from reassuring. "And did you have any pressing matters to attend to? Anywhere you might need to be escorted?"

"Nowhere in particular." Doppio shook his head "We should put some distance between ourselves and where the Execution squad was last spotted though. Passione has a safe house not far from here."

"Best to get going now then." Cioccolata tapped his foot impatiently. His gaze turned to the man clad in a brown body suit. "Secco, start the car. Let's get this over with."

Doppio watched the two, holding a light smile the best he could over the utter dismay and disgust he felt. He hated these people - every detail he knew about them was vile. These feelings were ones he shared with his boss. He'd been warned beforehand to keep a keen eye on the two and to call the Don immediately if he felt even the slightest hint of malice. This trip would be far from pleasant, but to stay safe was his order. Doppio felt his smile grow more genuine. He would do everything he could to keep his boss safe. He held too much important information to clumsily goof around in the midst of such a mess.

"We need to get moving if we want to get to the safe house tonight." Cioccolata drummed his nails against the metal roof impatiently. Doppio nodded and slid into the back seat. Once buckled he let his elbow fall against the frame of the door and his chin tough down onto the palm of his hand. It was going to be a long trip, but he would do everything in his power to save his boss.


	13. Unione

"Shall we continue this discussion in a more suitable location?" Risotto questioned, his gaze never leaving Giorno.

Without command, Prosciutto knew his role. His eyes ran along the walls as he tried to recall the layout of the building. He'd scouted a private meeting room earlier - that would be the place best tailored for this sort of conversation. The Capo needn't say anything. Should they need the space, Prosciutto would lead them to it.

"No, I believe it would be better if we stayed where we are." Giorno's speech still felt formal, but his formality didn't stem from fear. The boy was entirely self assured. Risotto matched his composure, only allowing an informing touch of displeasure to show on his face.

"You may want to rethink that. This is hardly the place for such a conversation." Anything even boarding on haughtiness would be unwelcome.

"That may be true, but we are working under extraordinary circumstances here." Giorno gestured to the doors. "I find it much more reasonable to stay within the sight of my allies. I have not underestimated your abilities; If things don't work out it would be easy for your men to tear me limb from limb."

It was clear that the boy didn't truly fear that scenario - he was too confident. But his actions weren't a tell of naivety, rather they alluded to a fearsome strength in which Giorno could place deep trust. He didn't need the rest of his squad to protect himself. What he was doing was simultaneously an act of formality and a power play. Risotto remained silent, weighing his options. Caving to his demands would set a dangerous precedent - it would be handing power over to Giorno before their conference had even begun. Forcing his preference seemed to be the better option, but the boy showed no sign of budging. It wasn't likely that he would be intimidated into it either. Risotto's inky eyes squinted slightly as he looked down at the blond. In essence, Giorno was playing a game. By following the thread of logic that he had asserted, the boy was able to stay exactly where he wanted and win the first battle. Risotto was wrong to believe that they'd yet to open negotiations. Giorno was already vying for an agreement, trying to get his foot in the door.

"We may be assassins, but we're not wolves." Risotto's deep baritone gave the statement perfect impact. "We agreed to a formal meeting, and we will keep our word. It would be rude of us not to provide you with a better setting." So long as he played by the rules Giorno had set, he could win. Perhaps manners weren't an assassin's forte, but Risotto would prove himself to be less lacking than the boy hoped.

"The situation may be sudden, but preparations would take no time at all." Prosciutto recognized the angle they were playing instantly. "I'm sure having us crowded around you like this isn't going to help any anxiety you may be feeling." At his words a few of the assassins shuffled back slightly. Illuso shot a tentative look to Melone, who already wore a knowing grin.

"I see that I can trust you're taking me seriously, and if you're so enthusiastic I'll have to accept." Giorno remained unruffled. For a transient moment, Risotto doubted his actions - Had he actually been misreading Giorno's intent from the beginning?

Prosciutto Stepped away from the group and gestured down the hall. There was no place for second guessing, Risotto knew that his actions had been correct. It was highly unlikely that Giorno had been completely oblivious to his power play, and even had he been, the Capo had no intention of taking this less seriously than he would negotiations with anyone else.

"If you're still nervous, take the seat closest to the door." Risotto lowered himself into the chair at the head of the long meeting-style table. The others filed in at a measured pace, taking seats while keeping watchful eyes on the black sheep among them. Only four assassins besides Risotto were attending - Illuso had stayed behind when the group had moved, knowing someone would need to maintain their defenses.

They all could recognize the clear tension between their leader and the blond boy. They weren't strangers and they certainly weren't on friendly terms, but they didn't seem to bear hatred for one another. Prosciutto wore a distinct frown - His leader had always been the mysterious type, but usually Prosciutto was privy to the details when they involved Passione.

"I don't know what you're here for, but there is one thing I would like to make clear." Risotto's voice cut through the silence, marking the official start of the conference. His eyes were centered on Giorno and filled with an unrelenting harshness. "Any talk involving Trish Una is forbidden. If you have come to discuss trading for her as if she is some sort of commodity, you should leave now." Giorno remained calm under his gaze.

"Of course. I have no intention of doing anything like that." He spoke with a gentle smile that felt disturbingly out of place. "We wish for nothing but her safety, and so long as you can assure us of it there's nothing left to discuss there" The boy closed his eyes, allowing his sentence to stand for a moment before continuing. "You and your squad are much more interesting to us."

"How so?" Risotto didn't return Giorno's smile; His face remained cold and still.

"As I said earlier, our goals are one." Giorno began. "Though our past actions may paint us as dogs of Passione, they were merely a means of keeping up appearances." His smile dropped into a small frown, the slightest show of dissatisfaction. "Unfortunately, we've run out of time and we can no longer continue working under that act."

"You'll have to be entirely specific as to what it is you want. If you're simply looking for an out from the mafia, you're in the wrong place." Risotto retorted. The other assassins listened to the exchange with intrigue. This was far from anything they'd prepared for when they had first denounced Passione. Ghiaccio glanced at Melone, whose entire attention was taken by Giorno. The blond assassin looked utterly fascinated by his actions - He made no attempt to hide it, either.

Personally, Ghiaccio hated this situation. What point was there in bargaining with the enemy, what did they have to gain here? Wouldn't it just be easier to wipe out their opponents and move on? Formaggio had been reckless, thats why he'd gotten so messed up. A swift strike with all their power should be more than enough to destroy the group waiting outside. Why was Risotto allowing this in the first place? Ghiaccio crinkled his nose at the elegance Giorno was attempting to display. It made him sick.

"We want to dispose of the current head of Passione." Giorno spoke such grand heresy with unsettling ease. There was clear resolve and determination shining in his eyes, but the words still felt wrong. Risotto raised an eyebrow - he was pleased with the directness, but such an undertaking was more than a bit unbelievable.

"Thank you for being blunt. Are you telling me the truth?" Risotto's question was cold and harsh.

"Of course." Giorno nodded solemnly. "I'd never dare take such a matter lightly."

"Why are you the one telling us about this intended coux? You're far too young to be involved in organized crime in the first place, and yet you want me to believe that you're involved in the organization of the murder of the most powerful man in Italy?" Anger was creeping into the man's voice.

"No, not quite. It would be most correct to say that I'm the one organizing it." The slightest hint of pride crept into Giorno's voice. He must have known the unbelievable nature of his words, and yet he still spoke, unfettered by the hostile audience.

It was enough to drive Ghiaccio over the edge.

Before he could move, before he could even suck in a breath, Risotto's hand came down hard on the table. The young assassin couldn't help but jump at the impact.

"I'm only going to say this once." His voice was a low growl. "Don't say such things so casually." The Capo had certainly grabbed the attention of everyone present, even Giorno seemed to sober up slightly. "I don't care how self assured or powerful you are, Giorno. There are lives at stake here and what you're trying to tell me you're taking on is powerful beyond your comprehension."

"I can assure you that I understa-"

"I'm not finished." Risotto's words cut swiftly through the boy's. "My squad and I are where we are out of necessity. If you're going into this for gain, the first thing you need to do is understand the difference between us." His eyes bore into Giorno. They were fierce, burning with rage and power. Under his deadly gaze, anyone would be shaken to their core.

"I see." There was a moment of silence as the blond recomposed himself. "What can I do then? I'm serious about everything I've said." The formal pleasantness slipped from his expression, leaving stony determination. "Maybe I took the wrong approach, but I mean it. Everything I've said is the utter truth that I intend to see through to the end."

"You must know you're asking me to believe some very absurd things." Giorno held the man's gaze.

A sudden click followed by the door to the room nearly swinging off its frame grabbed everyone's attention, turning even Risotto's eyes towards the entrance of the room and the pink blur that had burst in.

"Risotto, I'm so sorry to interrupt but there's something I need to tell you!" Her eyes suddenly bounced from the lead assassin to the blond boy looking over his shoulder at her not two meters away. Her jaw dropped slightly and her train of thought scattered. "Giorno?" The name poured out as an incredulous question.

"It's good to see you again, Trish. But now might not be the best time.." He gave a small smile, his eyes darting back to Risotto. She followed them, remembering her mission. There was a hint of distress on the man's face. His attention was centered on her, holding so much intensity that Trish feared she'd overstepped a boundary and earned his wrath. Her throat became a desert, drying up her voice.

"What did you need to tell me?" His response was slow. The man wasn't sure how to respond. Had it been one of his men disregarding previous orders and interrupting such an important meeting, he would have met the act with swift discipline. Trish was different however - she had allied herself with their cause, but he couldn't totally declare her a member of the execution squad. Moreso, his orders had been more to ensure her safety than anything else, and surely she wouldn't do something so brash unless it truly was important.

The calmness in his tone was reassuring, and yet Trish had already convinced herself that she was out of place. She became extremely aware of every eye on the room on here. The girl looked between them, unable to focus on a single person for a moment as she felt a heart-pounding diffidence flush a soft red onto her checks. She gulped, willing herself to stand up straight and relay what she'd heard.

"There was a phone call." Trish began. "I'm not sure how they reached me, considering it was a hotel room, but it definitely wasn't a normal call. The man on the other end knew everything that had happened, he knew who I was, and my ability…"

"What?" Risotto was too shaken by her words to remember to keep his voice soft. "Did this man ever say his name? What else did he tell you?"

"No, I don't know who it was." She shook her head. "He said he was our friend but I don't know if I can believe that." It was still too strange - too jarring - to think some shadow entity had been watching her this whole time. "The man said that Passione's boss has noticed us and is taking measures to stay safe." She licked her lips, hesitant to continue. "I don't know if we can trust this person, but he said that the boss was heading to Sardinia with dangerous bodyguards."

"No, thank you for telling me." Risotto raised his hand to his forehead. "It's important that you did, and the information you were given is probably worth following." Oddly, her claim didn't sound suspicious to the Capo. The man who had contacted Trish was likely the person who had been their informant since the beginning of this mess - Cannolo Murolo.

Risotto stayed quiet for a moment, arranging this new information in his mind and navigating the many actions they could take next. It certainly added a new layer to the situation. Blindly trusting any lead could be dangerous, but such a strange way to disburse information seemed highly in line with their source's style. On top of that, Murolo was the one who had originally discovered Trish. It would make sense if he had been keeping tabs.

"Giorno, if you're serious about this I want you to show that to me." Risotto turned back to the blond teen. They couldn't simply jump to follow this lead, but they couldn't allow themselves to stagnate either. They were in no condition to act, damage control and preparation should be their first concern. "I will trust you, but what about your team?" The Capo questioned.

"They're of the same mind." Giorno nodded. "You can trust them - They're not in this for money, our unit is the world to them and we've agreed to do this together and look out for one another."

"Alright." Risotto drew back and crossed his arms. It would be hard to believe there wasn't an ulterior motive, but Giorno's conviction and faith were convincing. "I'll allow you a chance to prove yourself. If you really want to help us, then you'll do just that." Risotto turned the other assassins and nodded.

The group stood up immediately, so close to unison that the motion seemed practiced. In truth, they had little idea what their Capo was implying. Even so, it was their job to comply and act according to even the subtlest order. They waited, and when Risotto took a long stride towards the meeting room's door, they followed suit.

Giorno understood has was to follow as well, hopping up after the assassins had begun towards the door and falling in line. Trish released her long held breath, but felt lost in the display before her - it was as if she had missed something. Even though Risotto had thanked her for her actions, the girl still felt excruciatingly out of place as the group slowly pulled away.

Risotto had led the group in silence through the building. The inoffensive, cream colored walls stood in such contrast to the actions at hand that Giorno could have laughed. However, there was work to do and such things would have to wait. Another matter on his checklist was the girl trailing behind them a ways. Where exactly did she stand?

The last time Giorno had seen her, Trish had been closely guarded. Any path of escape had been blocked as she'd screamed at him to run. In just a matter of days things had changed dramatically. Not only was she moving freely, but she had passed on vital information to Risotto. Without a doubt she'd grown sympathetic to their cause, but there had to be more to it. It almost seemed as if they'd accepted her into their ranks.

The group stopped as Risotto released a door's lock without a single touch. He reached out and let his hand idle on the knob. After a moment he turned and let his gaze rest on Giorno.

"I've seen your abilities." His words were cold and professional. "Prove not only your loyalty to our cause, but your value as well by fixing what's inside." Giorno nodded. Risotto pushed the door open and gestured for the boy to follow him. The assassins stepped aside. As Giorno passed he took in the expressions that had grown solemn in his peripheral vision.

His attention was taken immediately by strong smell of iron. Another step and he could fully see the man splayed across crumpled white sheets that had slowly become saturated with a red hue. Giorno wasted no time drawing closer to the scene. Formaggio wasn't conscious. His face was unnaturally pale, but he was breathing - labored breaths though they may be. The blond stood bedside now, surveying the full extent of the man's trauma.

"He's dying." The words were soft. Risotto nodded silently. The boy turned to address the Capo directly. "Not for awhile, but at this rate he will."

"Exactly. I want you to stop that from happening." The other assassins had slipped into the room. Trish stood behind them, flinching at what lay before her.

"I can do that." A gold cloud began to apparate behind him. Giorno skimmed his hand over Formaggio 's chest before stopping over the puncture wounds in his side. "Before I start, you should know that this isn't a comfortable procedure. He's going to be in terrible pain with wounds like this."

"I understand. Please begin." With the command, Risotto turned toward his team. "Prosciutto, take Pesci and begin preparations for meeting with the rest of Giorno's unit." The suited blond nodded before exiting with his brother. "Melone, I want you and Ghiaccio to figure out the best way to get fourteen people to Sardinia." Melone quickly disappeared into the hall. Ghiaccio's pace was slower, his eyes lingering on Formaggio's mangled form.

Trish looked between the withdrawing assassins and Giorno. Risotto leaned back against a wall next to her, his expression stalwart. Finally she turned to him.

"Do you have anything you need me to-" Her question was cut off by a terrible screech. Trish jumped, quickly slamming her hands over her ears and snapping toward the source of the noise.

Formaggio had been ripped back to consciousness and had managed to raise an arm to push back at Giorno, who was leaning over him. The boy had been attempting to fill the assassin's wounds with shredded bedding. His stand floated above him, slowly converting the material into organic tissue thread by thread. Even now, Giorno fought against his arm, utterly absorbed in fulfilling his duty.

The sounds escaping Formaggio unmistakably stemmed from intense pain. His other hand tensed and gripped the sheets, failing to move from its current position. He was reacting, but it was clear that he wasn't fully there. It was like watching a feral animal desperate to escape, but too exhausted and beaten to put up a real fight The noises he made weren't full of rebellion and power, they were weak, guttural cries. Even through the barriers made by her hands, Trish could hardly stand to hear it. Without realizing it she had drawn back, her eyebrows knotted and her lips drawn into a distressed frown.

"No one will fault you if you choose to look away." Risotto's cool words took her attention from the scene. His eyes were still fixed on his teammate, but the sentence was clearly meant for her. "This is our reality, it doesn't have to be yours." Trish blinked, her gaze lingering on the Capo's face as she processed his words.

Slowly she removed her hands from her ears. As her arms came to lay free at her sides, she stood up straight and turned back to Formaggio and Giorno. It was no less brutal than before, and it would surely continue this way for quite some time. The girl still cringed at the assassin's cries and could not suppress the pangs of pain she felt through a faint empathy each time Giorno reached particularly tender spots. But still she watched, forcing herself to witness the true brutality that each of these men were accustomed to enduring and committing.

"Do you think we should say something now?" Pesci's voice was just above a whisper. He didn't turn toward Prosciutto as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the other group of defectors as he knew he should.

Prosciutto didn't respond, instead taking a long drag off his cigarette and spitting out the smoke in a streamlined jet. The two leaned against the outer doors of the hotel as they watched and waited. Twenty meters away, Buccellati and his men stood in a similar fashion. Their posture was less casual, more serious and stiff yet showing the same lack of emotion as the men parallel. Prosciutto took the cigarette from his lips and flicked it to the ground, extinguishing it with a twist of the well-polished toe of his shoe.

"Yeah, let's go." He straightened his jacket before slipping his hands in his pockets and stepping forward. The blond's movements were calm and collected. His eyes were forward and his expression was stern - not so much as to intimidate or allude to aggression, but to carry the kind of professionalism that was common among underworld superiors.

The steps if his bulky comrade were different - if Prosciutto moved fluidly like water, Pesci skulked forward like a rock tumbling down a hill. It wasn't clumsy, but it lacked a sort of polish. The contrast was welcome though. The two had long ago hammered out a technique that cast them as brains and brawn respectively. Few would guess that both were in truth proficiently deadly in combat.

The two could feel themselves cutting into tense air as they approached the group. There was no movement on the other side yet, but surely each and every one of them was ready to spring to life and defend themselves. When the two assassins had cut the distance separating them in half, Buccellati took a step forward, putting himself between them and his team. Prosciutto slowed his pace and raised and open palmed hand. He wasn't here to pick a fight.

"Where's Giorno?" The suit-clad Capo took initiative. It seemed they had caught on well enough.

"He's working on a project for us right now. He did a good job. You should be proud." Prosciutto swapped out his serious expression for a polite smile. Good for business, but there was still something disconcerting about it. "In fact he did so well that it seems like you and us are gonna be friends now. You should be proud of the little guy."

"That's phenomenal news, we're glad to hear things have worked out." Buccellati held his hand out towards Prosciutto and waited. His tone was formal, the same type that the assassin used but with more warmth. For a split second Pesci found it hard to believe that this man had ever been their enemy.

"Of course." The blond closed the distance between them before reaching out and shaking his hand. "This is good news for both of us after all." He wasn't fond of this stranger. Yes, it was good to have additional support with what they were planning and this would nearly double their numbers, but he couldn't help but take an immediate disliking to the atmosphere surrounding Buccellati.

It was true that he held a grain of suspicion, that was the only normal response to this turn of events and he certainly hoped the others kept similar cautious thoughts in mind. However, that wasn't what bothered him here.

"You should know that we're going to be departing soon." Prosciutto dropped the other's hand. "We just got a new lead, and it'll be best to move immediately. In any case, staying in one place for too long would be dangerous. Be sure your-" He glanced at the group of teens and Abbacchio. "Er, men, are ready to move immediately and please follow me." He turned quickly and began back toward the hotel.

"Are you sure this is alright?" Abbacchio stepped to Buccellati, his eyes trained on the blond.

"Of course. I'm sure Giorno did just as well as he said." He gestured for the group to move forward. "Even better that they're putting Giorno to the test already. They'll see what an asset he can be and better cement this partnership." Abbacchio rolled his eyes at the ample praise.

There was a moment of silence as they followed Prosciutto into the building. There was a clear divide between the party and the pair, manifesting as a small gap between the groups. Neither Pesci nor Prosciutto looked back at the others.

"It's an opportunity we can't pass up after all." The Capo's words were quiet, only loud enough for Abbacchio to hear. "Making this work means greatly increasing our chances of not only winning, but surviving the journey." Buccellati could hear the light taps of Fugo, Mista, and Narancia's feet. He felt a deep sense of responsibility for them. As much as he trusted Giorno, he new this endeavor would face them all with unfathomable dangers. Not everyone was so limitless, but each was just as mortal.

As Giorno emerged from the room he raised his hands to eye level. The tips of his fingers were coated in dry red, the color trailing off into only speckles at his palms. He curled his digits, examining them with a pleased smile. He felt a bit like a surgeon emerging from the operating room. His 'patient' had been left sleeping as before, but his heartbeat and breathing were steady now - not to mention his shredded skin and muscle molded back into a single smooth whole.

The boy looked down the hall. He'd been dismissed just moments ago and told to wait for the time being in another room. Again the banal surroundings struck him as odd. It took only seconds to find the room he'd been directed to. It was nothing out of the norm, a prepackaged home good for a few nights then fit to be recycled.

Giorno took a final look around before allowing himself to sit on the end of the bed. He was tired. Converting abiotic matter into flesh and bone took intense concentration, and it was far from a quick process. He'd had to fight Formaggio every step of the way, too.

What was he doing? There was no one to impress here.

The boy let himself flop back onto the bed. He stretched his arms wide and for a moment got lost in the smell of stagnant clean sheets and the feeling of the patterned quilt on the backs of his hands. They were soft, even with the stitched texture on the surface. The bedding, of course, wasn't some major luxury brand, without a doubt it was standard fare for a place like this. Still, he could enjoy it. The door creaking open suddenly brought him away from his thoughts.

Giorno sat up as Trish came into view. She looked to him immediately, stopping in place as their eyes locked. Silence reigned, and for that time it was impossible for either to tell who should speak first. The boy was fully aware that she had been present for the entirety of his operation on Formaggio.

"Why did you watch that?" There were certainly bigger questions on his mind, but perhaps it was best to start with something smaller. "I heard Risotto telling you to leave."

"He didn't tell me to leave, he said I could leave if I wanted to." Trish shook her head.

"And you didn't want to?"

"Of course I wanted to leave." She crossed her arms. The sentence had come out a bit snappier than she'd liked. Giorno's eyes had left her. He was arbitrary scanning the room as he fixed his collar. She hadn't provided an answer, but he wouldn't push it. Trish looked down. "How's your foot?"

"How's my-" He followed her gaze to his shoe. He'd nearly forgotten the injury of just a few days ago in the whirlwind of events that even now continued. "It's totally fine now. You saw what I can do." He gave it a wiggle and smiled at her.

"That's good to hear." Her stance eased a bit. Giorno was easier to be around than the others. Even though he was reserved, there was a brightness to him. Though mature, he was still around the same age as her - not to mention, he hadn't directly kidnapped her. She was allied with the assassins, even sympathetic and growing more so by the day, but it would still take some time to reconcile that fact.

"It must have been a little confusing to see me using that ability, I can explain more if you'd like." Giorno offered. Trish shook her head in response.

"No, I've gotten the details already." She paused for a moment, wondering how much she should say. "I'm still getting used to mine though." She couldn't help but smile a bit as she let the truth slip out.

"So it's true then, you do have a stand!" The blond grinned back at her. "May I ask about it?"

"Of course- Though um, I don't think I can show it to you. I haven't quite gotten the hang of everything yet." She gave a fake laugh, a bit embarrassed to admit it.

"That's perfectly normal, it's not something you master overnight. So then," he crossed his legs and leaned forward. "I was told that you were eaten by a monster shark and managed to burst out of its head unscathed. Impressive, more than a little dangerous, but most of all, mysterious. How did you do it?" He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Well, it's kind of a blur to think back on." She raised a hand to her chin, thought a moment, then crossed to the other bed in the room and sat down. "I'm honestly not sure if the idea was mine or her's. I just kind of knew that I needed to act and that it would be alright." She paused again, eyes staring off in front of her. There were still things she herself didn't understand. She turned her attention Giorno. "It softens things, makes them like jelly, or a thin plastic. Once I was inside its mouth, everything just turned malleable and so I tore my way out. She helped of course."

"I see." Giorno nodded. "Does she have a name?"

"Spice Girl, but I didn't name her really. She told me herself." She tapped her fingers against the bedding. She liked the name, but she would have liked to have chosen one herself. Then again, she knew that she would have had endless trouble coming up with something. "And yours?"

"Gold Experience. I like the sound of Spice Girl, it's an energetic name. I'm sure you're going to find a lot of interesting ways to use that ability, versatility can be a major asset and something like that surely isn't lacking." Giorno proposed.

"Thanks, but I don't know how useful it's gonna be since Risotto doesn't want me anywhere near the action." She stopped and considered her words. "That's not a bad thing."

"You're right. It's not. Any of us could die at any time." Giorno's smile dropped into a serious expression. "Trish, could you please tell me what's going on here?" For a moment all the girl could do was blink, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone.

"Do you mean with me?" She gulped, hoping she'd understood the question. Giorno nodded.

"Where do you stand? The last time I saw you, you were very clearly a hostage held against your will. Now it looks like you're directly aiding the execution squad. Am I wrong?" Giorno waited for her answer.

"It's kind of like that, I guess." Trish looked for the best place to start. He was right, and the craziness of the situation was far from lost on her. "It's more like an agreement than anything. Or paying damages maybe? Passione's boss has no interest in saving me, and I'm useless as a lead. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's prioritizing my death." Her voice had decrescendoed as she spoke. Trish's eyes were centered on the carpet now. "I wouldn't be in danger if they hadn't discovered me in the first place, and if I tried to run away now I'd probably just be hunted down. Risotto knows all that, and he knew that this was his fault. He took responsibility for it, and I'm going to stick with the assassins until it's safe for me to be on my own."

Giorno's gaze fell as well. This was the reality of their world. It wasn't the first story of atrocity he'd heard, and it would be far from the last. Her words didn't have a major effect on him, he'd grown too numb to these things. Still, he knew what she'd gone through and learned was horrible. The least he could do was offer his sympathy. Giorno raised his gaze back to her and parted his mouth as if to speak before freezing.

He could clearly see tears pricking in the corners of her glossy eyes, yet she wore a small, contrary smile on her lips. The hands that supported her as she leaned in the bed were balled into fists.

"Maybe I shouldn't say it, but I kind of want to see them win. I want to see that man get what he deserves." Trish's voice may have been small, but it carried weight and resolve that the blond could not deny. Giorno released a silent breath full of the words he no longer needed to speak.

She was no different from the rest of them; She would see this through to the end.


	14. Alleati

A short foreword:

From here on it becomes more important that you're familiar with the characters from the light novel Purple Haze Feedback. This chapter, as well as the next few, might become confusing if you haven't read the book. A quick scan of JoJo wiki pages can suffice, but if you're interested in reading the light novel itself (which I recommend) feel free to send me a message and I can provide the English translation.

* * *

"You're certain this is where we're to stop?" Cioccolata looked over his shoulder. His eyes first fell on Doppio, then turned to further investigate the road through the windows. There was nothing to see but the deserted gravel pathway and the woody thicket surrounding it. He looked back to the underboss. "This is the place?"

"Well sort of, we're getting close!" Doppio tried to smile at his bodyguard, only to be met with a dull expression and the sound of Cioccolata's long nails clicking against the soft plastic of the car's steering wheel. "This is as far as we can go by car."

"Well then." The harsh, hissing tone of Cioccolata's voice was like a constant screech of nails on a chalkboard. Everything the man said was disconcerting. Doppio was supposedly in this man's care, but he felt more like a mouse, divided from a snake by just a thin layer of glass.

"We have to go on foot from here." By the time Doppio had mustered the courage to speak again, the guard had already unlocked his belt and pushed the car's door open. "And the others should be waiting for us when we arrive."

Doppio stepped out of the car, squinting at the forest that threatened to swallow up the old road. He'd never actually been here before, but his boss had sent the three of them detailed instructions on where to go.

A distorted, metal squeak pulled his attention back to his two guards. All it took was a turn of his head, and a sudden wave of disorientation was upon him - The world did not look as it should. Where a car had been just moments earlier was now an empty mass of air. Doppio felt the ground beneath his feet through the soles of his shoes and let that feeling of stability travel up his body until his grip on things solidified again. Really, this shouldn't surprise him as much as it did. He knew about Secco's power, and yet seeing it in motion so suddenly took him off guard.

Judging by the smirk on Cioccolata's face, he must have noticed.

"Are you going to be alright for the rest of the trip?" There was no concern in his voice, only mockery. "Secco could always carry you if need be." Doppio's gaze shifted to the other man. He stood at crooked angles, his eyes bugging slightly in his head and his lips creased to form an expression that Doppio couldn't recognize.

"I'll be okay, I just didn't expect the car to disappear so suddenly..." He gave a small smile. Cioccolata returned it with a disingenuous grin of his own. "We need to enter here, then there will be markers to lead us the rest of the way."

"Let's get going then. I don't want to spend more time on this excursion than necessary." He started towards the edge of the woods. The brush was thick, and Cioccolata kicked it down as he entered.

To Doppio it made sense that there was no trail - this safehouse was highly secure, only a select few were aware of its existence. The pair of bodyguards hadn't been privy to its location prior to this mission. Whether or not they'd make decent guides was highly debatable.

* * *

Unrestrained by clouds nor scenery, the sun was allowed to beat upon the ocean with all the force it could muster. The waves that lapped over the surface sparkled green as it's rays caught the microscopic specs of life floating within. The same placid waters were soon sucked into themselves, swirling and mixing to foamy white caps as a ferry dragged its trail through the sea.

In light of the steadily arcing midday sun, Ghiaccio had chosen to take cover on a shaded part of the deck. His back was squared firmly against one of the outermost support beams as he crouched on the floor. He didn't engage with any of the other passengers exploring the frankly limited space or even those seated on benches, preferring to turn his attention to the splinters of wood that bristled around a knot in the floorboards.

The boy scraped the nail of his index finger against the board's grain, prompting more splinters to bubble up at sharp, low angles. Drawing his finger backward he brushed them down. The tiny slivers refused to fit back into their places, instead popping up defiantly against his force.

He continued brushing his hand back and forth over the salt-stained floor as his eyes drifted to the bow of the ship. There was a clear difference in the color of the wood there - years of sun exposure had bleached it a lighter color than that of the cavern in which he sat. At the very front of the deck, the soles of two shoes were planted firmly against the floor. The pair on the left were brown leather boots supported by a raised heel. The deeper scratches on them stood in contrast to the care that they had obviously been shown - cleaned recently, scuffs erased and any dust wiped away.

The second pair were a shade lighter than olive green. They too had been well maintained, looking as if they were fresh from the box. Glints of light reflected off the zipper on the front that ended in a bright red ladybug. But it didn't really matter how well kept the shoes might be - Ghiaccio still found them ugly.

From where he sat he couldn't hear what Trish and Giorno were saying. It was likely that the two didn't care to be heard, but it wasn't as if they were hiding - three of the others that the golden-haired boy had brought with him were on the deck as well. He'd learned only a single name so far, and he didn't really care to learn the others. Their actions didn't concern him anyway - the one wearing tiger print and the one with the headband seemed to be locked in competition, spitting over the side of the ship and passionately discussing their results, while the blond third looked pointedly away from their activities. These were the allies Risotto was adamant about accepting.

"Keeping an eye on them?" Illuso's soft voice had surprised him. It always seemed to come out of nowhere, creeping up silently before emerging at the last moment. It would have been considered a bad habit on anyone besides an assassin.

"Something like that." Such a question wasn't worth more than a short response. Illuso looked at home, snuggly set against the shade that the upper level of the ferry provided and choosing not to cross the immaterial threshold into the sun.

"Did Risotto-"

"Risotto didn't tell me to." Ghiaccio's frustration was thinly veiled - as was the norm. This sort of exchange wasn't uncommon, and the boy expected Illuso to swiftly understand that he wasn't in a chatting mood.

But instead of leaving the other assassin stayed in place, shifting his body so his back leaned against the same pillar Ghiaccio had chosen as his ideal location to lurk. Silence stood between them, despite the white noise erupting from the boat's other patrons and the sides that cut through the sea.

"I think it's good that you are." Illuso finally spoke. The sentence hung in the air as Ghiaccio tried to pick apart the meaning behind his words. He looked over his shoulder at the other assassin, who immediately met his gaze. His face betrayed little aside from the same suspicion that the younger had looked upon their new allies with.

Part of it didn't surprise Ghiaccio at all. Illuso had always been wary. He was the type to doubt most situations and people, hanging back until he was convinced without a doubt that he was being presented the truth. Illuso probably only trusted Ghiaccio because they were in the same squad - if he really trusted the boy at all.

That wasn't a fault - Not in their line of work. Mafioso were stabbed in the back daily. Money, drugs, women, authority. To their type, these things were worth their ethereal weight in blood. Caution and power were the only things that could keep you safe. Illuso was more than willing to make up for what he lacked in one with an excess of the other. That wasn't something that wouldn't change, even if Risotto ordered otherwise.

Ghiaccio looked back to the gangsters they'd allied with. Nowhere in their commands had they been barred from keeping tabs on them. Risotto had made clear that they were to treat these people as their comrades, but no order could make the assassins trust them with their lives.

"I'm glad we agree on this." Illuso's gaze had shifted to their allies as well. "We'll have to deal with it ourselves."

It was as if an invisible chasm had split across the space that Ghiaccio and Illuso inhabited. The older's final words had struck the deck between them, causing an anxious discomfort to spark in Ghiaccio's chest.

"You're not saying-" The boy had turned to face his comrade, but found only an empty space beside him. He drew closed the mouth that had been frozen mid-sentence, bringing together his teeth to grind away the anxiety he felt. The sentence had been too pointed and Illuso's expression too full of disdain. Maybe it really could be ignored, but Ghiaccio had had similar thoughts himself. However, he'd never act on them, that would mean going against Risotto. That would be stupid, it would be the end.

He stood up, looking across the deck and trying to find his teammate. His gaze flashed past the bow where Giorno and Trish stood. A tiny glint of blue caught his eye, stilling his wandering eyes. Giorno was looking back at him, his head turned so just the corner of his eye was visible. He didn't like the feeling of being seen by the boy. It only made the unease within him to rage more violently against its organic cage.

He needed to leave, to be away from Giorno. He couldn't have heard what Illuso had said, right? Ghiaccio looked back toward the deck - There, Formaggio was sitting among the other passengers in the shade of the ship's interior. It was as good an escape as he was going to get. Without hesitation, he moved into the shade and towards his comrade.

"Doing better?" The way Ghiaccio forced out his words made them feel more like an accusation than a question.

"No shit dude." Formaggio's arms were spread wide along the back of the bench. Ghiaccio had no desire to sit next to him, and he was sure the other passengers felt the same way. Personally, Ghiaccio would find the thought of sitting near Formaggio repulsive any day if the week, but it was possible that some poor soul out there could be into whatever it was his comrade had to offer. Today, though, Ghiaccio couldn't fathom anyone even wanting to come near the older assassin - he looked a mess. His clothes were shredded and torn to ribbons above patches of blotchy, red skin that was still acclimating to it's new body.

And yet he still sat with his limbs spread wide and a cocky grin on his face. Truly Formaggio was gifted, gifted with a wealth of reckless confidence and a void where his self-awareness should have been. Ghiaccio could only glare at him with disgust and an ounce of second-hand embarrassment.

"You really gotta learn to eject that rod from your ass once in awhile." Formaggio shook his head. "What'd you come over here for anyway? Were you really worried about little ol' me?" Ghiaccio had crossed his arms at this point, his eyebrows slanted at a dangerously sharp angle.

"That's absolutely not-" He stopped himself, scowling at the thought of being lured in by another tease. "I'm not in the mood for this right now."

"To be fair you're never in the mood for anything." The ginger retorted.

"Can you keep your mouth shut for even a minute? Are you capable of that?" Despite the clear irritation leaking through in his voice, Ghiaccio managed to keep himself in check. Sure, his nails were digging dangerously far into the palms of his hands, but he was still on track. Formaggio's grin lulled to a more neutral expression and he nodded. "Good. I need to know what you think. About the recent.. Developments." Ghiaccio glanced at the three young mafioso standing together near the bow of the ship.

The shrimpy one was looking back at him. Ghiaccio quickly averted his gaze.

"Oh you mean Risotto having that pack of kids join us. Yeah, I was asleep for most of that." Asleep was a gracious term for Formaggio's previous state.

"But you can still have an opinion on it!" Ghiaccio hissed.

"I mean I can but that doesn't mean I do." Formaggio shrugged. "If Risotto thinks that's whats best then I'm just gonna go with it."

"You're not even going to think about the situation at hand?" The younger assassin could barely fathom Formaggio's opinion. But then again, he had seen more than enough to know better than to believe Formaggio would really think about anything.

"I didn't say I wasn't thinking about it. I'm just not going to gossip with you like a little girl." His words were more forceful this time and Ghiaccio was taken aback. Formaggio melted back into the relaxed state he'd initially been in. "It's just not our place, y'know? Even if it bugs you, we gotta trust Ris."

The boy exhaled, looking aside. Formaggio was right, he couldn't let his doubts in Risotto, Illuso, or anyone distract him from the reality of the situation. Their Capo wouldn't let some random group of assassins join them unless he was absolutely sure of their intentions. They weren't so desperate that they'd blindly take handouts. Even if they were, it would be better to die on their own terms than let a plague spread from within and undermine their ambitions.

Half lost in his own thoughts, it took Ghiaccio a moment to notice the lean figure moving towards them. His gaze readjusted, centering on the teen that crept forward. He paused his approach when their eyes met, but after a moment of hesitation seemed to take it as an invitation to join the two.

"You and me," Narancia put his thumb to his chest, then stuck his index finger out toward Ghiaccio. "We're good right?" The boy raised a tentative eyebrow, waiting for a response. Formaggio made no attempt to hide his amusement at the situation, his eyes also glued to his teammate in anticipation.

"What?" Ghiaccio wasn't sure what was happening. He looked to Formaggio, but upon finding nothing more than his usual devilish grin he returned his attention to the child standing beside them.

"We're good, like, we're cool." Narancia gave a reassuring nod as if he'd perfectly clarified the statement. Ghiaccio only stared back at him in silence. "We worked together before, remember? We busted up that shark!"

"I had you work for me out of necessity, that doesn't make us friends now." The young assassin's response was frigid.

"Wha-" Narancia was clearly disheartened. "But we made such a great team!" He splayed his hands out in front of him.

"Hey kid don't worry about him, he's always this bitchy." Formaggio waved his hand lazily. "Trying to talk to him like that is just gonna ruin your day." Narancia crossed his arms and glared at Ghiaccio. This was an utter betrayal and he wouldn't forget it.

"I'm leaving." Ghiaccio looked down his nose at Formaggio as he spoke. He'd had enough of the other assassins crudeness for one day.

"You could at least try to make nice," Formaggio muttered as his friend skulked off. He shook his head and turned to Narancia. "So who are you?" Unlike Ghiaccio, the ginger had no reservations when it came to talking with their new allies.

"Oh uh," Narancia scanned the assassin swiftly. "I think I'm the guy who shot the hell out of you." He followed the confession with a sheepish grin, looking over Formaggio's torn wardrobe and slowly coming to realize who he had been standing in front of for the last few minutes.

"Really?" Formaggio raised an eyebrow. "That's pretty fucking sweet. Your stand can cause some real chaos." He nodded as he spoke, staring off at the ceiling as he recalled the hazy details of Venice.

"You're not, like, mad?" Narancia blinked, relaxing slightly and tilting his head to the side. "Even though I messed you up pretty bad?" Formaggio raised his arms and looked down at his own body.

"I'm better now ain't I?" He shrugged and looked back to the tiny gangster. "Your stand is a plane, right? I like it, I'm definitely a fan. Being able to shoot everything up like that is something I wouldn't mind having myself."

He really _wasn't_ upset. Narancia was grateful and nodded along with the praise, but even he knew that it was ridiculous for Formaggio to be so lax about what had happened. The boy had been sure that Sheila was going to kill him - and she probably would have, if it weren't for his teammate's intervention. It was his fault that Formaggio had been caught in the first place.

But Narancia wasn't going to dwell on that, especially not when his Aerosmith was being praised.

"You would?" A full smile had erupted on the boy's face. "Well I can't blame you, it's a pretty awesome ability. That's not all though, it's got another ability too."

"Oh yeah?" Formaggio goaded him on.

"Yeah! Aerosmith can track things too - that's how I was able to pursue you! I could see you breathing." By now Narancia's reservations had vanished. Being encouraged to brag was far more appealing than choosing his words wisely as to not upset. He only had a talent for one of those things.

"Nice, nice." Formaggio turned to look at the swirling sea behind him. "You think I could see it?"

"You mean right now?" The boy's eyes had doubled in size. With a nod from the assassin, he hurried to the side of the boat, climbing onto the bench and standing on his knees to look out over the water.

On Narancia's mark, Aerosmith roared to life in front of them, causing a phantom breeze to sweep across the boat. To those unable to see his stand, it felt like nothing more than another warm gust of air rolling off the ocean. The plane cruised smoothly over the water before gaining altitude and rolling in the open air. Narancia turned to Formaggio, his expression expectant as he waited for a comment from the man.

"That's one hell of a stand. Seems like it has pretty great range." Formaggio grinned. "What about the guns?"

"Oh well.." Narancia looked across the waves. The glow he'd taken on from the positive comments faded a bit. "There's nothing to shoot here. I mean except the boat. I can't shoot the boat though." The last sentence sounded as if he was repeating something someone had told him previously.

"What about the fish? You've got a tracker, right?" Formaggio suggested.

"But fish don't breathe, I can't track something if it doesn't breath." Narancia shook his head.

"Wait don't they?" Formaggio creased his eyebrows and paused.

"No, they breathe water. They don't make Carbon dioxide since they breathe water, so I can't track them." The boy shrugged, his stand still idling above them.

"Fish don't breathe water, they breathe _in_ the water." A voice from behind surprised the pair. A blond boy stood behind them, his arms crossed and face showing annoyance. "There's oxygen dissolved in the water. Forcing water through their gills extracts it. They still produce Carbon dioxide, they just don't exhale it the same way that we do." Fugo finished his explanation, eyes still focused on Narancia, who had broken out into a guilty sweat. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I was- I was showing my stand to him! He asked to see it and we're supposed to make friends with them, right?" Narancia turned towards Formaggio, looking for backup.

"It's true, I did ask to see it." This was another face that Formaggio remembered from Venice. He looked more solid than the last time the assassin had seen him. Even through the daze that would more accurately be called blood loss, Formaggio had been able to see the fear in him at that time. "What happened to your girlfriend?"

"What?" Fugo was taken off guard. His expression shifted to shock. "You mean- If you're talking about Sheila, she's not working with us anymore. She's too much of a liability." His features slowly reverted back to the stern look from earlier. "And our relationship is nothing like that."

"But you would call it a relationship." The ginger gave Fugo a pointed look. Beside him, Narancia could barely contain himself. Unsophisticated as the tease was, he was still getting a kick out of it. "Probably for the best though, she seemed a little.." He rolled his hand forward while searching for a word. "Crazy."

Fugo looked away from the pair. Narancia had already called off his stand, so he could tell himself that he didn't care what they had to say. He'd done his job. With so much happening he'd barely had time to ponder Sheila's disappearance. After she had lashed out at him, she'd run from the building, still in pursuit of their then-enemies. But Venice was a maze, and it seemed that she hadn't the luck to find her way through it's twisting alleys and to her target. The look she had in her eyes that day haunted him. It was feral and determined. He doubted that the failure he'd contributed to would stop her.

"So who are you anyway?" Formaggio drew Fugo's attention back to the conversation. He turned towards the smaller gangster as well. "I still don't know your name either."

"I'm Narancia." The boy replied quickly. "And my stand's name is Aerosmith." He spoke with a confident grin that quickly turned to a stubborn frown when Fugo glared at him.

"At least introduce yourself properly." He looked back at Formaggio. "My name is Pannacotta Fugo. It's nice to meet you." He held his hand out to the assassin, who took it after a moment of confusion.

"There's no need to be so formal y'know. Not like we're a bunch of suits working for a bank or something." The boy's handshake was a lot firmer than his own.

"Some of the others in your group seemed to appreciate it," Fugo replied. "Your name is Formaggio, right?"

"Guess I must have missed introductions while I was out." He released the boy's hand and leaned back into his seat. "What about your stand?" He could see tension seep into Fugo's body at the question. Narancia climbed down and sat beside Formaggio.

"I don't think that detail is pertinent to our current situation." He adjusted his tie. "I can fill you in on the details you missed though. Who everyone is, what we're planning to do next, that sort of thing." He tilted his head, looking just past where his two allies sat. "It looks like we don't have long until we reach land, so we should get to it right away. Who knows what we're going to run into out there."

* * *

Cioccolata cursed as he pulled his ankle past a thistle. He had had little patience from the start of this mission, and the pittance he had left was quickly waning. Doppio stopped walking and looked back at his bodyguard.

"If it's any consolation, the directions say we should be there any minute now." He stood a few meters ahead of the tattooed man. Doppio knew the path better than either of the men who had been tasked with keeping him safe. It seemed that he was also more familiar with the outdoors. He wouldn't fancy himself a naturalist, but he did try to get out into nature once in a blue moon.

"Oh, that's just lovely to hear." Cioccolata snorted, bending over to rub his leg. They had climbed quite a ways up the gently inclined mountainside, following a path marked with seemingly random objects that only Doppio seemed to recognize. Despite the teen's reported prestige, Cioccolata was beginning to doubt he had any idea where they were.

He stood up and waved Doppio onward. Even if he was being rubbed in all the wrong ways, he couldn't do anything to this kid. Not yet at least. The thought of recounting a tragic accident at the hands of the rebel assassins to Passione's boss, now greatly in need of a new right-hand man, did tickle him, but even Cioccolata knew it would be a bad idea to stage something so risky.

"There!" Doppio stood in front of him, pointing at a tree that had been hacked apart at a sharp angle. "That's the last one, it should be right up ahead!" The underboss rushed forward through the brush.

Pushing the lush branches of a bush aside, Doppio led the guard to a clearing. A tiny, run-down shack stood in front of them. Its windows were broken, and what little of the green paint left on it was peeling severely. It looked as if something had burrowed under the porch, and yet it seemed devoid of life bar the small black bird resting on the chimney - but even it seemed sickly and deformed.

As Cioccolata looked on in disbelief, Secco's torso slowly emerged from the ground. He couldn't deny that the shack was… remote, but it's security was questionable. No one would think to look for a high ranking mafia official here if they stumbled upon it, but if they were being followed or tracked staying here could be a disaster.

The front door creaked open - for a moment Cioccolata thought it was about to fall off its hinges. But it stood strong, though slightly warped, and a small man stepped out from the darkness within the building. He had a pleasant smile on his wrinkled face as he strode toward them.

"I'm glad to see that you all made it here. The hike wasn't too much trouble, I hope." He stopped just ahead of them, setting the tip of his umbrella on the ground and crossing his hands over it.

Cioccolata had no idea who this man was. Clearly, they were the ones Doppio had mentioned they would be meeting, but the guard had envisioned someone a bit more… capable. The man before him was decrepit, he had to be at least 65.

"Kocaqi, it's good to see you." Doppio strode forward and shook the old man's hand. "The others are with you I assume?"

"Yes, we're all here." He nodded. "That said, we seem to have run into some trouble." Doppio's smile dropped to an anxious frown.

Cioccolata's eyes looked past the two and into the building. He could see a tall figure waiting just beyond the entrance. Secco followed his gaze, sinking further into the ground. Whoever stood there had an immense aura. It was as if all the guard's senses were lighting up at attention, waiting for him to take a move.

"Don't worry too much, Doppio. We have everything under control, and it would seem that there was no danger in the first place." Kocaqi reached out and patted the teen's shoulder before turning and ushering them towards the building. The figure stepped away from the door and back into the darkness. "We had a visitor before you arrived. She came blazing in on a warpath, at first we were certain she was one of the rebels." Kocaqi led them across the threshold. As their eyes adjusted to the low light, he continued recounting the events that had transpired. "Of course we were easily able to subdue and sedate her - you see we thought we might be able to get some information out of her, and we did! However, she was more than willing to offer it." Kocaqi raised his umbrella and pointed toward one of the corners of the shack.

A huddled mass laid across a crate that had been pushed into the corner of the building. Beneath a black bob, her eyes faced the door. Even as her body shivered and convulsed she attempted to push herself up on an arm. Not far from her, a boy covered in scabs leaned against a wall, alternating his attention between the girl and digging at his nail beds with a dagger. Another young girl laid at his feet, one arm curled under head like a pillow while the other stretched towards the boy's shoes, playing with his sloppily tied laces.

"She claims that she came here with the intention to help." Kocaqi lowered his umbrella to the ground and leaned one arm on it. "Her name is Sheila E, and it seems she's a member of Passione who was trying to take matters with the assassins into her own hands. Seems there's something personal about it for her."

A sudden tremor ran through Sheila's arm, causing her control of it to suddenly vanish. The limb went limp, and her head crashed down onto the wooden crate below her.

"Poor dear." Kocaqi shook his head "Even if she really does have the purest intentions, we simply had to keep her strung out and useless until you arrived. It's your choice what happens next. We can get rid of her if you'd like, but we thought we'd keep your options open considering the circumstances. In any case, what she reported matches the information we receive from Murolo to a tee."

Doppio gnawed on his lip. He'd met with the narcotics team countless times before - they were vital to the creation of Passione's empire. He'd grown fairly used to the quirks of the four within it, but he could never quite get over the way people looked when they came under the effects of the fourth member's stand. Sheila was a liaison and bodyguard - he'd seen her before. Now she looked pale, her face gleaming with sweat as she gulped in heavy, uneven breaths. Her chest heaved slightly and she drew a weak hand to her mouth.

"Just say the word and I'll inject her with enough to shut down every organ in her body." A deep voice echoed from behind the group. Cioccolata whipped around to see the same figure from earlier now illuminated by muted light seeping through a dirty window. Sun spilled on to only half his body, revealing his bony features and fur-lined suit. His eyes drifted to meet the former doctor's. They were empty. They held nothing that Cioccolata could parse or manipulate. The cruelty within them was cold and illogical; it existed simply to fill a void deep within Massimo Volpe's core.

In an instant, the guard knew that he had met someone frighteningly unique - Someone whose heartlessness reached beyond Cioccolata's morbid curiosity and extended into the depths of a hellish, meaningless apathy. Both of the men could willingly commit atrocities against life, but only one could do so without any semblance of a reason.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary." Doppio shook his head, drawing the crowd's attention back toward him. "Even if she was acting without orders, it seems that it was all within our interest. Sheila is extremely skilled, it would be a cruel waste to kill her." Doppio looked from the girl to Volpe, discomfort clear in his face. "Could you, um.."

"Of course." Volpe crossed the room quickly with wide strides. He towered over Sheila where she lay. A small figure apparated beside her, wobbled over, and dug a thorn into her arms before disappearing once more. Almost immediately her breathes became more level and her shaking slowly stopped. "She'll be fine in just a few minutes."

"Thank you." Doppio cleared his throat. "I'm sorry that it's come to this, but I appreciate your loyalty and assistance." He looked across the room. "That goes for everyone. Kocaqi, I know guard duty isn't your team's normal duty. I'll be sure to report your determination and flexibility." Both his voice and stature were small, but the room understood the gravity of his position. If there was anyone who knew the boss of Passione's secrets, it was this young man. Should he fall into the wrong hands, Italy's most powerful mafia could be destroyed.

"Well said. We'll take good care of you, don't worry." Kocaqi smiled. "Vittorio, if you would." He nodded at where Sheila E laid. Without hesitation, the scab covered boy sheathed his knife and wrapped his arms around Sheila's torso. He dragged her off the crate and dumped her unceremoniously to the floor.

"Careful!" Angelica directed the weak yell at Vittorio as Sheila landed on the ground next to her. As Vittorio stepped away from the two of them, she turned her free hand towards Sheila's braids, poking her fingers into the tightly wound lengths of hair.

The boy dragged the crate from the wall, slowly revealing a hatch that lay beneath it. Cioccolata was pleased at the revelation - perhaps this safehouse wasn't a total wash after all. After taking a moment to catch his breath, Vittorio pulled the hatch open.

"If that rat Murolo's information is correct, the assassins probably won't take long to start sniffing around here." Kocaqi took on a stern expression. "We should start taking defensive measures immediately."

"Of course. I'll be staying here until we can get confirmation that it's safe for me to be out and about again. Thank you all again." With a short nod, Doppio descended into the tunnel below.

* * *

"Sardinia, huh.." Prosciutto chewed on the edge of his cigarette. "Our source better be right if he's dragging us out to the countryside."

"He's yet to be wrong." Melone smiled at his teammate. "And doesn't it make sense for someone so valuable to hide somewhere obscure?"

"Is that what you'd do?" Prosciutto glanced at the blond through the corner of his eye. He shook his head in response.

"I'd hide in plain sight." Melone had made a full recovery, and he seemed to be taking quite a bit of pleasure in his regained autonomy. "The boss's greatest asset is his anonymity. He should use to his advantage the fact that we wouldn't know him if we saw him." Prosciutto grunted and stared forward.

The rest of their team was gathering after disembarking the ferry. The port they had landed at was quiet and calm. It seemed a strange place for a pack of assassins to be gathering. But Melone was right - in a way it made sense. Hunting for someone here would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

"Too bad the sun won't be lasting." His eyes had landed on the horizon. Rolling grey clouds had taken residence there, and even with the soft breeze, they were barreling forward at an alarming rate. "Rain, without a doubt."


	15. La Caccia - Part 1

"Where do these places come from, anyway?" Trish dragged her finger through the dust on an oak windowsill. The thin white curtains that adorned it had taken on a yellowish gray tint over years of neglect.

"Well it depends really." Prosciutto ran a hand over the top of his head, eyes trained on his reflection. "Some are buildings we learned about while serving Passione - locations that were recognized as safe places to land. Others might belong to personal friends, people we met before or after our time in the mafia." The man was pleased to find that the light winds that had accosted them on their way to the farmhouse hadn't damaged his hair too much. "It's hard to say what this is though. It's likely a place known in whatever sort of restricted underground network Murolo operates in."

"Speaking of which, we should go over the latest details he sent us." Melone tapped away at his computer as he spoke. The rest of the gangsters seemed to agree. They were scattered throughout the wide living room. Even with its spacious interior, it couldn't comfortably fit the fourteen of them. The discolored wood and rustic designs that they were set against made the scene look like a surrealist arthouse film.

"Yesterday we received word that the Boss was headed towards Sardinia with his remaining bodyguards." Risotto's baritone voice directed all eyes toward him. "After taking the day to recuperate and treat our injuries, we set out and arrived here. Not long after, our source sent us new intel: Passione's boss is hiding out near the base of Mount Limbara."

"That's all we know?" Buccellati's question came after a brief pause

"Yes." Risotto nodded at the other former Capo. "We have to change directions and track down the boss ourselves. Imprecise as this intel might be, it's likely the best chance we're ever going to get."

"Given Murolo's information is correct." Prosciutto interjected, chewing the end of an unlit cigarette that wiggled haphazardly against his lips.

"He's yet to be wrong." Melone halfheartedly defended, his eyes not even leaving the screen in front of him. "That said, this is a matter that's notoriously difficult to investigate."

"If I may ask," Trish raised her hand. "Who is Murolo?" As a dozen eyes turned to her she coyly dropped her hand, suddenly thinking the action embarrassing given the setting.

"I've been wondering the same thing." Giorno spoke up. "Clearly he's an informant of yours, but do you know anything else about him? Namely, why has he been helping you?" The boy had not only given Trish an answer in his follow up, but he'd also cut to what his original allies seemed to agree was the most vital part of the matter.

"We can't say for sure." The towering assassin knew his words sounded like a confession. "Sorbet had hypothesized that he's been gambling on receiving compensation after we succeed." In a way it made sense - Should they overthrow Passione, they'd have nigh-unlimited resources at their disposal. Cozying up to someone headed for that position was understandable.

Still, betting on their success was an insane risk - Especially while working within the very mafia he was sabotaging. Thus, the question only came naturally.

"How do we know we can trust him?" Giorno questioned. "My intention isn't to incriminate someone that you've placed your trust in, but seeing as we're working as a single unit now, I think it's only fair to ask you to explain everything."

"Of course." Risotto bore no ill will for the comment. "If the situation was different and we weren't so pressed for time, I would have explained everything immediately." Risotto paused, perhaps collecting the best words. "Had Murolo wanted to destroy us, we would have been dead before we even had the chance to act."

"He's that powerful?" Giorno prodded.

"His connections are what's powerful," Buccellati answered in the stead of Risotto, who gave the black-haired Capo a slow nod. "I may not be privy to the details concerning this man, but if he knows enough to direct you toward the Don of Passione, he must have an impressive amount of resources at his disposal."

"You are correct." Risotto's eyes still carried a cold intensity whenever they landed on Buccellati. "He has Passione's resources and then some."

"You mean he's-" Fugo stepped forward.

"On the inside." Melone finished with a grin.

"He's Passione's intelligence director." Prosciutto added. "The one person who actually knows anything about that damn organization."

"You have-" Buccellati was taken aback. "You have Passione's intelligence director on your side?" An incredulous atmosphere emanated from one half of the room. A pleased grin had curled onto Giorno's face.

"Then why haven't you won yet?" A single, stale voice broke through the silence. Abbacchio crossed his arms, a grimace clearly defined on his face. "If you have such a key player in your corner, why are you still in such desperate circumstances? I would hope you've noticed by now that it doesn't add up." The mood dropped.

"We're perfectly aware," Prosciutto inhaled deeply. "That Murolo isn't giving us the full picture. It would be more apt to call his input tips rather than information. Still, we'd be at a far greater disadvantage without him."

"Tight-lipped as he is, you still trust him?" Abbacchio's question was pointed. What the assassins were describing clearly raised some red flags - everyone in the room could recognize that.

"We don't exactly have the luxury of using a trustworthy source here." Prosciuttos gaze had taken on an aggressive slant. "Have you forgotten the position we're in? Who it is we're up against?" More words bubbled in the back of the man's throat, but he bit his tongue, sensing his leader's critical eyes on him.

"They're right to question these things, Prosciutto." The Capo's tone was steady and dry. "We can guess that he's sparing in his instructions for the sake of self-preservation, but at the end of the day, it's just a guess. We can't know for sure why Murolo does the things he does. All we can do is gamble on him coveting our victory."

Both Abbacchio and Prosciutto seemed satisfied enough with this response. It was true that Murolo was suspicious, but he had also already proved himself an asset. Giorno adjusted one of the winged broaches on his collar, playing back the exchange in his head. What was Passione's intelligence director hoping to gain here?

"I welcome discussion, but we need to act." Risotto spoke up again. "The boss is supposed to be here. If he is, we find him and we kill him." Plain and simple. Ordered with cold ease. He turned towards one of the smallest figures among them. "And we'll need your stand to do that."

"Oh you mean-" Narancia straightened up. He hadn't expected to be called on in the middle of such a serious conversation. "Aerosmith's ability?" Still, how could he complain when the topic was his stand?

"I know it's not a perfect fit, but it's the best tool we have." Risotto nodded. "We'll all need to search the mountain, but Aerosmith can give us extra reach."

"Aerosmith searches from above while we search from below." Buccellati mulled over the proposition.

"We'll divide our manpower into units for the sake of efficiency." The Capo scanned the room. Doubling their numbers meant more variables to take into account.

"That's reasonable, you'll direct your men, and I'll direct-" Buccellati began.

"No, I already know how I want everyone paired." He spoke over the other man's words. "Fully mixing our abilities will serve us best."

"Alright. What do you suggest?" The black haired Capo spoke with restraint. This wasn't the time for unnecessary conflict.

"You're going to take Fugo with you, as well as Prosciutto and Pesci. With the variation in your abilities, you should be able to handle any situations that may arise." Risotto didn't even look at Buccellati as he spoke. "That's an order, not a suggestion."

Prosciutto nodded toward his new partners. The strain in their interaction wasn't lost on the blond - he was surprised, though. It was unlike their leader to be so aggressive with seemingly no provocation.

"Illuso and Formaggio," the two assassin's attention perked at their boss's call. "Take Mista and Narancia with you. Use Man in the Mirror to provide Narancia with a safe space to search from."

"Hell yeah, I'm good with that!" Formaggio's loud approval cut through the murky atmosphere. Wait, had he even noticed it?

"Giorno and Ghiaccio, you two are coming with me." The blond gave a pleasant smile to the other young assassin. Only a cold glare was returned. "Melone, I want you to go out into town and make a Homunculus to send with us. You'll stay here with the others." Melone nodded, shutting his laptop.

"Wait, "with the others"?" Trish's brow creased. "You mean-"

"Yes." Abbacchio cut in. "Neither you nor I are suited for this type of mission, so we'll be staying behind."

"I'd like to request that you let me go with you too." Trish straightened up. For a moment she seemed more like a trooper than a displaced girl.

"Absolutely not." Risotto answered swiftly. He inhaled as if to address the others again.

"Wait. You don't know what's out there, my Spice Girl could come in handy." The girl's eyes shone with intensity as she spoke. She'd already prepared herself for whatever challenges might lie in their path today.

"You're right. I have no idea what we might face." Risotto crossed his arms. "So I'm not going to recklessly throw you into it."

"I can defend myself!" Trish clenched her fists tight.

"I don't doubt that, and that's exactly what I'm ordering you to do." There was a force in Risotto's voice. "Stay here. Defend yourself."

"This is my battle too." The girl pushed. She was growing tired - Risotto wouldn't allow her an inch, and the many sets of eyes focused on her were beginning to grind away her resolve. "It's only right that I do something- I want to help."

"Do you even know what you're asking?" Risotto uttered the words with a harsh edge. "Look around you. Have you forgotten what we are? We're soldiers. We don't know what we're going to face out there and we don't know if we'll be coming back." Trish had pursed her lips. There was little room to argue with him, yet she couldn't stifle her frustration.

"If he's out there this could be my only chance to-" She stopped herself. She could feel each word growing more unsteady as it escaped.

"To what? Give your father a chance to finish the job?" It was ruthless framing. But it was true.

Trish didn't know what she had wanted to express, and she didn't know how she could argue anything now. Her chest felt so molten that it chilled her. Giorno looked between the two of them. It was clear to him who was in the right.

"Trish." The blond's words were far softer than Risotto's. "It might be your only chance to get some sort of closure, I can understand how you feel, but he's right. If we're on the heels of Passione's don, there won't be anything akin to mercy ahead of us. We can't risk your safety." Trish gazed at the wooden flooring.

"You asked us to protect you and I swore that I would." Risotto shook his head. "I'm not forsaking my word."

"Okay." Trish conceded, her voice dropping. "Just finish it."

* * *

It was fortunate that the four of them were already clad in long pants and sleeves - All but Fugo, whose choice in wardrobe wouldn't do him any favors in the forest that stretched around them. He waded through the long grass, Buccellati to his right. They'd exchanged few words since leaving the cottage.

Not far ahead of them, Prosciutto and Pesci carried on a conversation. Having little better to do, the teen had eavesdropped - they were discussing something relatively trivial, train delays at some station. Maybe that was normal for them. Fugo hadn't a clue. Not even a day had passed since they decided to gamble everything on joining up with the assassin's cause.

"What do you think, about..." Fugo nodded towards the two they'd been partnered with. Buccellati's eyes followed to the pair. He took a moment to choose his words.

I think they're likely as competent as Risotto says, but I would prefer if I knew them better considering the situation." The former Capo frowned. This was likely the closest anyone had ever been to hunting down Passione's boss. It felt off though - separated from his team, little say in the operations. He'd ceded to Giorno long ago, but the boy had proven himself and won Buccellati's undying respect time and again. The hierarchy was different now - he had to trust a stranger with the lives of his men. Was Risotto reckless? Did he make sacrifices? There was no telling, and he hadn't been given any real chance to come to know Giorno's new co-conspirator.

Even if he had broached the subject, what response would Risotto offer? The beast of a man had made it clear where the two of them stood, and none of the edge he addressed Buccellati with had abated since their first meeting. Even now, at such a critical moment, Risotto refused to trust him. Unity was needed to win the day, but they hadn't had the time to pull oil and water together.

"Could you tell me again," Buccellati called out. What was the point of fretting? "About your stand's ability? I'm wondering about the particulars." To solve a problem, one needed to act. He could stew in anxiety, or he could clear his head of petty hang-ups and fortify the places where he saw weakness.

Prosciutto stopped and turned his head to look back at the two.

"Me or him?" He cast a thumb at Pesci, who followed suit and halted.

"You, but I wouldn't mind hearing more about both." Buccellati had put on a congenial expression.

"Gotcha." He and Risotto were perhaps the only two who had been able to thoroughly acquaint themselves with every stand among the two teams. But the more they all knew about each other, the better. "Mine is Grateful Dead. I can spread a mist that ages things. Good range, but I can't discriminate targets. It's a little boring." The blond chuckled to himself. "Pesci has the real point of interest - His Beach Boy can travel by his commands through matter and hook targets. High in precision and flexibility, isn't that right?" He smacked the other assassin's shoulder - Pesci nodded vigorously, unsure of how to respond to the sudden praise.

"I see." Buccellati stepped forward, closing the distance between the groups. "Did you need a rundown of our abilities? I want to be sure you're aware of Fugo's at least."

"No, I've got a good idea already." Prosciutto waved his hand at the Capo. "But there is something I wanted to ask you - What the hell did you do to get on Risotto's bad side?"

"Ah, so I wasn't imagining that." Buccellati let out a sigh. Prosciutto raised an eyebrow. It had been clear to him that this man was far from being a favorite of his Capo's. "Back in Venice, before we had decided to pool our efforts, Giorno and I attacked Risotto. He made the problem he had with me very clear - he didn't approve of someone Giorno's age being a part of Passione." Prosciutto raised his palm to his temple.

"Yeah, that'll do it with him.." The blond shook his head. "I was afraid it was that. He's not gonna let that go easily, either."

"Now that he's seen the rest of us," Fugo broke in, "would it be right to assume things could be even worse?"

"You don't have to assume that, it's practically certain." Prosciutto dropped his hand.

"But what about the curly-haired boy with you all?" Fugo questioned. "He can't be much older than me."

"Ghiaccio? Ghiaccio is a bit of a… special case, let's say." The man answered. "Risotto did everything he could to keep him from joining Passione, but that kid's stubborn as a mule."

"He really is an ass." Pesci nodded alongside the quip. Prosciutto couldn't help but snort. His partner truly was full of potential.

"In any case, it still strikes me as odd," Prosciutto began. "Risotto can certainly be aggressive, but it's rare to see him be anything less than direct about it. It feels like there's more to it than just your team." The blond mulled over the possibilities. Considering the brief time they'd all been together, there was little that could have set his Capo off.

It didn't sit well. Now more than ever Prosciutto needed to be a competent right-hand man. He needed to the channel that connected everyone and the communicator between the groups. The tension between two leading figures was bad enough, but his inability to understand it and find a solution to the issue was worse.

Buccellati strode ahead of them. They needed to keep moving. The black-haired man was clearly competent, whether Risotto liked him or not. He certainly wasn't the most unpleasant gangster Prosciutto had ever met either. Even if his friendliness was a facade, it wasn't a hostile one, it just meant he was putting in effort. The assassin could appreciate that.

They'd been moving uphill for some time now - nothing extreme, but the forest did have a definitive slant to it. Lively green shot out of rocky terrain, brushing at their ankles and knees. The unfamiliar sensation kept the group on guard. They knew full well that anything even slightly out of place could quickly turn on them; Their enemies were impossible to research. This was a blind approach.

The trees had grown taller the further they ventured. Luckily, their density seemed to remain consistently wide thanks in part to the stony soil. Below a gray clouded sky, the leaves above them had formed a knit that allowed only scattered points of dull light to fall through. Ghostly dots danced on the ground like fervent ants, stirred into motion by the breeze that crept silently through the branches above them.

On most days, a gentle wind would have been welcomed. With the hot season rolling in, any bit of respite was heralded as a gracious gift. Today, however, the blackening sky caused each gust to chill the quartet further. Wood creaked as she slipped between the leaves, catching an odd twig and kicking it off the canopy and onto the shoulder of the bulkiest assassin.

It was too careless a mistake to let go. She had to make her move now.

Before Pesci could brush the twig from his shoulder, Sheila E burst from the trees above them, a knife in hand and Voodoo Child at her back. The weight tumbling from above knocked Pesci to his knees, cold steel already buried deep in his collarbone. She showed no restraint, viciously clamping her teeth down onto his shoulder as soon as she felt the force of the impact spring back through the body beneath her.

Voodoo Child took its cue, rushing the first person it saw. With its head tucked into its chest, it rammed the full weight of its body into Fugo. The arms he had raised did little to soften the force the stand drove into him, they were crushed inward as his body was slammed into the tree beside him.

The reactions were immediate - In a flash, Sticky Fingers had appeared. It's clenched fist barrelled towards Sheila, nearly cutting through the air. The girl had torn through too many stand users to be caught by such a basic counter. She braced her hands and feet against Pesci's back, dragging her knife with her as she sprung off of him. Sheila landed like a cat, knuckles that gripped the knife digging into the soil around her. This wouldn't be the first time she'd taken on four targets at once. She needed to stay vigilant though - these were trained assassins, not common goons. One slip up could cost her dearly. Her stand disappeared, letting Fugo slide downward slightly before catching himself on the tree he'd been crushed into.

She looked between the faces of the men. Illuso wasn't among them. Worse yet, Fugo snarl she wore grew into a full scowl. Spending time or energy on them would be a waste, she needed to-

She couldn't say which had hit her first, the bullet or the sound. What Sheila was sure of was that Prosciutto had a gun trained at her and a screaming pain had entered her right arm. It gave underneath the weight of her torso. Her chin slammed into the dirt.

"Pesci, get your Beach Boy out." The cool command slipped from Prosciutto's lips, his eyes never leaving the assailant.

"Hold on, that's-!" Fugo's voice shook with disbelief. As he tried to speak the air in his lungs felt as if it were stabbing outward. He crumpled into himself slightly, only to find that a similar pain inhabited his left wrist.

"Sheila, I didn't think we'd be seeing you again so soon." Bruno looked down at the girl, Sticky Fingers on standby next to him.

"You know this one?" As they spoke Sheila reassessed her surroundings. She'd let herself slip up again. Unacceptable.

"She briefly allied herself with us in Venice, but disappeared soon after." Buccellati crossed his arms. "She's proven herself to be very violent. Don't let her size fool you."

"Oh, I figured that much out already." Prosciutto scoffed. "Are you doing alright, Pesci?"

"I'm fine," the bulky assassins pressed his coat over the wound on his collarbone. "Better me than you, fra."

There wouldn't be a better moment than this. Even if the blond's eyes were still on her, his attention was split. Ignoring the pain pulsing through her, she summoned her stand. A clawed hand extended from the shoulder of her defunct limb, vaulting her into the air. In the split second before contact with the tree behind her, she transferred the knife into her mouth. She could still manage with one arm. Riding the kinetic force granted by her stand she pulled herself up the base of the tree, her toes burning red as they dug into the bark to propel her forward.

"Shit-!" Prosciutto raised his revolver to the canopy. One wound clearly wasn't enough to slow this girl down. His finger sprang against the trigger, sending another bullet hissing toward Sheila. It reached the treetops as she slithered behind a clump of branches, scattering only splinters upon impact.

Under the dark sky, the writhing masses of leaves above them were indecipherable. The sound of creaking wood and plant matter brushing together filled the air around them, a byproduct of the wind that had slowly been building. All four men stood at attention, their eyes searching for their enemy and their stands floating beside them - even Purple Haze had begun to show wisps of itself response to Fugo's distress.

"Just how the hell are we supposed to find her out here?!" Prosciutto growled as his head whipped violently back and forth, desperate to locate a scrap of fabric or flash of braided hair.

"We can't let her get away from us - any sort of cover we had will be blown." Buccellati grit his teeth. He hadn't been able to lay even a finger on her. The former Capo swallowed his frustration and looked to his subordinate. "Fugo, are you alright?" His eyes jumped to the faint outline beside the teen. "Be careful-"

"I know I-" Fugo raised his right hand to his temple. "I was just a little surprised by her." He took a deep breath, his stand growing wispier as it released. Purple Haze was too much of a liability here. It couldn't be allowed to roam free.

A sudden shriek sprang from the checkered beast. Fugo jolted as his stand regained it's full mass. It's actions were suddenly erratic. It clawed at the visor shielding it's eyes, dragging a crimson stain with it as white finger scraped down it's face. The teen tensed, averting his gaze from the monstrosity and trying in vain to pull it from existence.

"Pesci." Prosciutto's voice was calm and low, barely above a whisper. He lifted his revolver to his shoulder. "Rain's good for fishing, isn't it?" A momentary, incredulous look on the hulking assassin's face quickly melted to a stern nod.

In a single motion, Pesci stepped toward prosciutto as the blond raised his revolver to the canopy. As the larger tightened his grip on the reel, his superior's finger constricted the trigger and sent another bullet piercing through the air. A silver line shined into existence between the treetop and Pesci's rod. Though the shot hadn't elicited a sound from above them, Beach Boy's line was taught, and as he pulled backward, the pole warped towards the trees. The assassins stepped back and leaned forward, making his body an anchor as he wrestled the line down.

There was no contest between Pesci and his prey. Their sheer difference in size and muscle would make up for any tricks the girl might attempt. Tugging Beach Boy back, an arm was pulled from the canopy. The string that connected the two of them emerged from unscathed flesh on her wrist - Prosciutto's shot hadn't hit, but it didn't need to. The stand's hook could move through any surface until it found where Sheila's hand pressed down against a branch.

The girl's head appeared next, braids dropping in front of her as she struggled against the line. She could bend her arm at the elbow - or she could try at least. Her free arm wasn't much of a brace. The strain she put on it as she pulled against the line caused her previous wound to ache. But she just needed to hold out for a moment, just enough to take advantage of the thread's elasticity. Sheila's teeth grit against the handle of her blade. She lowered her chin, fighting to ignore the hook that shred against her tendons.

She could feel both her arms shaking as she brought her wrist in front of her lips. Sheila wound her fingers around the silver line and balled her hand. With as much force as she could muster, she turned her head to the side before whipping it back and striking the line with her blade.

It took the girl a moment to process the situation that followed. Whatever had struck her had thrown off what little balance she had and torn a gash across her stomach. She'd fallen head first and crumpled into a pile on the ground. Pain shot to her brain from every part of her body, it was too dizzying to comprehend each as a separate sensation.

"I doubt she'll be getting away in this condition, but just in case…" Buccellati cautiously strode to the girl. Sticky Fingers appeared beside him and reached down toward her. Too quickly for eyes to follow, it unzipped her arms and legs at the joints, leaving her a pile of parts on the dirt.

"That could've gotten messy, I'm just glad she wasn't able to slink back to her friends." Prosciutto shook his head, joining Buccellati in front of Sheila. He looked down at their attacker before turning away and reaching into the pocket of his suit. "I thought she must have been some sort of wild animal, showing that sort of frenzy, but now that I can actually get a look at her.." The blond grimaced and pulled out a crumpled box of cigarettes. He lifted one to his mouth and offered the box to Buccellati, who declined. "You know, Risotto is gonna be real pissy with me when he finds out about this. Passione doesn't even spare the kids, huh?"

Sheila E looked between the two of them. She wasn't afraid - she'd left that feeling behind long ago. But she knew that at this rate, things would end. They were close, weren't they? Close enough? A battle wasn't over until someone died. She felt exhausted, but she couldn't just passively accept the loss. It was clear that neither of the men before her understood her real power. She could maybe get two clean shots in, but that would still leave the other two.

It was better than nothing.

Sheila gathered the last of her strength. She couldn't move, but her stand could. Before the two men could even comprehend her assault, Voodoo Child had launched forward and delivered a punch to each of their chests. Buccellati and Prosciutto staggered back. There hadn't been much power behind the strike, but there didn't have to be. Fugo and Pesci straightened up, ready to launch a counter-attack.

"There's no way we're all getting out of this alive. I just hope they're the ones to kick the bucket." The words were clearly spoken in Prosciutto's voice, but his lips hadn't moved. In a split second, his face had grown pale. "Extra padding I guess. They can die in our stead."

All eyes had moved to the blond assassin - or more specifically, to the pair of lips that had grown on his chest. It was clear to Buccellati and Fugo what his words referred to.

"They're the worst kind of people, but joining up with them is the best thing to do, tactically speaking." It was Buccellati's heart that spoke this time. "They're only interested in money and turf. The best thing people like them can do is become weapons to bolster our cause." The former Capo felt dizzy.

"What's going on?" Fugo's eyes darted between the two of them, fear evident in his gaze. "Is this her stand?"

"What?" The mouth on Buccellati's chest spoke once again. "No, of course I know that he can be a liability. Why do you think Purple Haze acts the way it does? The stand reflects the user, after all." The blond boy was too shocked to even recoil. He felt frozen as the words spilled from the chest of the man he'd chosen to hand his life over to.

"Fugo, we can't-" A wave of disorientation swung over Buccellati, bringing him to his knees. The ground seemed to spin even as he crouched on the forest floor. He brought his hand to the lips on his chest. He recognized every word that spilled out - they were things he himself had said in the past. Private things, utterances not meant to leave the confines of hushed conversation. As Voodoo Child drew them out, the man's vitality went with them.

Sheila watched the two struggle from where she lay in pieces on the ground. There was no way to remove the mouths - they would keep repeating the two assassin's most vile lines until exhaustion killed them. It was far from a pretty death.

"That's enough from you.." Buccellati clawed at the slim lips on his chest. Raggedly tracing his way to it's edge, he pinched his thumb and forefinger together and flicked his wrist across the length of the mouth. In the wake of his hand, a shining golden zipper appeared, sealing the lips together. Color immediately began to return to his features. His legs had yet to cease shaking, but he pulled himself up anyway. Prosciutto was still on his feet, but the same grave look was slowly clouding over him. He took the assassin's arm in his grasp to steady himself before reaching to the man's chest and sealing his lips as well. "Better?" He watched as the other assassin sucked in deep breathes and steadied himself.

"Better." Prosciutto clicked his tongue. "I can't believe I let myself get so sloppy just cause the enemy is pint sized." He looked down to find Sheila gazing at him with a burning ferocity. She didn't elicit anything in him but shame and resignation. He pulled out his revolver and examined the two bullets he had left. Anything was better than looking a child in the eye in this situation. "Let's just get this over with."

"Wait." Buccellati raised a finger, snapping Prosciutto's attention toward him. "You clearly have some hang ups here, and you said it yourself - Your boss won't like what you have to do. Let us take care of this." The blond raised an eyebrow at the proposition. "Fugo's stand won't leave a trail either. Go on ahead - Risotto already doesn't like me." The former Capo's tone was level and measured as he spoke.

"Alright." Prosciutto answered after a moment of silence, turning around and beckoning for Pesci to follow. "Just make it quick, I'm not going to slow down for you. We've lost enough time as is." Without another glance at their former assailant, Prosciutto crept away from the scene. His pace was far above a casual stride - he had no desire to stick around.

Buccellati watched as the pair disappeared ahead of them. He glanced at Sheila before turning to face his Ally. Fugo's face had taken on a pale tone. The teen was fighting to keep his expression neutral.

"Don't get so nervous Fugo, you should know by now that I wouldn't force you to use Purple Haze." It felt like it had been ages since Buccellati had worn his gentle smile. The blond barely paid attention to the light reprimandation, his mind whirring as he grabbed at hypotheses for his superior's contradicting words and actions.

Satisfied with his de-wiring of Fugo, Buccellati returned his full attention to their main task. Sheila still glared at them, daring other to step within her striking range. The former Capo felt little intimidation - even if she was acting tough, she was already heavily wounded and being separated into parts by sticky fingers for so long was majorly taxing.

"Sheila, I'm going to request that you don't attack me again as I approach you." The man stepped forward slowly. There was silence as he neared the edge of Voodoo Child's range. His gaze still locked on her, he took another step forward.

In a flash, the beastial creature appeared. Its arm lunged forward like a lance. But it's assault was far slower this time, and with such an anticipated approach, Sticky Fingers could easily grab Voodoo Child by the wrist before the attack could even come close to Buccellati. While her stand was restrained and her limbs still lie detached, the former Capo knelt down beside her.

"We worked as allies back in Venice, Please call back that memory and make this easier for us both." His words didn't carry the kind of edge one would expect from a gangster engaged in combat. They were soft and soothing. "I don't believe any of these sides really mean anything to you, so why are you still fighting so desperately?"

The girl didn't answer him. She simply stared, her eyes sizzling.

"You nearly died here, and who's to say what happened prior?" He raised the back of his hand to her forehead. "You act as if you're perfectly fit to be taking on four people, and yet physically you look and feel sick."

"I don't give a shit!" Sheila writhed slightly before realizing the futility of the act. Her rage only intensifying, she opted to spit at the crouching Buccellati instead.

"Hey!" Fugo roared to life, stomping towards them. "You're in no position to-" Buccellati raised his hand, stopping the boy in his tracks. His eyes were shut tight as he returned his hand to wipe the spit from his face. The sudden, burning anger in Fugo's chest lingered, but he couldn't let it get the better of him.

"Your body shouldn't be letting you move so much in the state you're in, and yet…" The man's eyes drifted to her arms. "Something must be numbing the pain and keeping you going. You should be past the point of exhaustion by now." Buccellati grimaced. "Are you really going to destroy yourself in pursuit of whatever it is that you hope to accomplish?"

"You're a rat without a soul who could never understand my purpose. Your words are meaningless." Sheila couldn't keep looking at him. She didn't want to hear what he was saying.

"A rat?" Buccellati cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I certainly feel accomplished as the first rat ever to have a stand. The talking must be a first too." His tone was still light. The former Capo had taken no offense from her words and actions. "I don't know anything about your purpose, but I'd like to think I could understand it."

"I'm being led by the god of justice. I don't care if I get hurt. I don't care if I have to rip through everyone standing between me and him." Her detached muscles tensed as if still a unit. She couldn't move her body, not even Voodoo Child could move in her place.

"It's some sort of revenge, then." The man didn't even flinch. His eyes looked down at the struggling stand with a distant melancholy. "I hope you understand the darkness that kind of path invites, Sheila. No matter how wrapped up in this 'purpose' you are, I think you should take a minute to think about that." Buccellati raised to his feet. "Stay down, Sheila. My Sticky Fingers' ability will wear off with time. Even when it does, stay down. Don't try to come after us, and don't make a ruckus whatever you do." He began walking in the direction that Prosciutto had disappeared. "Wait until the sun starts to set, then run far away from here. In the meantime, why don't you think about where this sort of life has already led you, and if you're willing to let that darkness swallow up what's left."

Fugo took one last glance at the girl before following Buccellati forward. For just a moment he could see her fierce expression waver. The ferocious fire behind her eyes had dulled into something more akin to smoldering coal. Something inside her was still fighting, fighting to be released. To lash out and destroy anything in her way with reckless abandon. But there was something else there too - a hint of restraint that seemed foreign to her very being.

Two instincts were clashing inside her, one telling her to sacrifice everything to continue the fight, the other begging her to preserve what little life was left in her body. Whatever had been used to keep her so vital despite her injuries was wearing off. Fugo couldn't help but wonder which was a more poignant sensation: the pain she felt or the hopelessness of her situation.

It was strange. He should have felt relief at their victory and quickly moved on. But he only felt fear as he stared down at her. Fugo saw himself reflected in her sullen gaze and wondered how easily he could be put in the same position. Was it at all farfetched to think that one day his rage might get the best of him and result in his death? Sheila was still hanging on, but it was by virtue of Buccellati. Few men in the underworld would allow themselves to be foolish enough to spare an enemies life. For Buccellati it was an act of goodwill, but it was dangerous nonetheless.

Even if someone did spare Fugo, would he be able to restrain himself as the girl was now?

Sheila was moved by hatred. Her hatred was focused, pointed like a spear at the neck of the man she despised above all else. Did this make her better than him, Fugo wondered? He thought of the vitriolic spirit that possessed him, the one that coalesced into a harbinger of death and suffering that he called Purple Haze. It had been described before as a manifestation of his own hatred. What was it that he hated though? It wasn't a single person, it wasn't even the lot of people he had once called his family. Was his hatred a gossamer that spread across a contrary world, so thin that it was scarcely noticeable until it twisted into itself and struck like a snake?

Was Fugo himself even free from its reach?

He turned his eyes away from away from her and quickened his pace toward Buccellati. They still had work to do, this was no time to get so distracted, so shaken.

"If I see you again, Fugo," The voice from behind stopped the boy in his tracks. Quiet as it had grown, it still bore the weight of a frozen tundra. He didn't look back - he couldn't. But he listened. "I won't make the same mistake."

Only silence followed her words.

* * *

Obnoxious, sputtering laughter ripped out into the silent forest.

"You're serious? He really did that?" Formaggio wiped a tear away from his eye. A wide grin was spread across his face as he walked through the brush. The man was alone, speaking to a pocket-sized mirror that he held out to the side of him.

"I mean it!" Narancia was practically yelling. "The whole windshield was shattered, and that just made Fugo even angrier!" The boy burst out laughing before he could finish the story. Even as he threw his head back, Aerosmith's radar hovered dutifully over his right eye.

"It's true, I saw it too." Mista nodded, taking the matter of confirming Narancia's story rather seriously. "He wouldn't shut about losing the bottle of wine over something like that. The whole night was unhinged."

"That's amazing, I can't imagine anyone in my squad doing crazy shit like that." Formaggio chuckled, shaking his head. He could see the two clearly through the mirror he held. Illuso had activated it as a connection between the two worlds before they had set out.

" _You_ do stupid things like that all the time." The aggravated voice came from somewhere a few meters ahead of the three. Illuso had kept quiet for the majority of their search, barely responding when Formaggio tried to drag him into the conversation. "Stop distracting that boy, he's supposed to be searching for our enemies."

"Hey, I'm still searching! I can do two things at once!" Narancia protested.

"Instead of doing two things at once, focus on one thing. Your job." Illuso didn't even look at them as he spoke. "And I hope you realize," he continued. "That making so much noise is dangerous."

"Hey relax! It's all under control!" Narancia waved his hand at the assassin. "I'll see enemies on Aerosmith's radar before they can get anywhere near us."

"Have a little faith, Illuso!" Formaggio swiveled the mirror around, trying to locate his friend's position. "We're gonna be just fine!"

"That's not the point, he shouldn't be focusing on our location! The whole point of letting him into my mirror world was that he could safely search _the rest_ of the mountain!" The irritation in his tone was growing. Illuso seldom worked in a team. That was the way he liked it. Pairing him with brats who could easily betray them should have been wholly out of the question. It was a poor decision made by their Capo.

Just one in a long line of them, the way Illuso saw it.

"I guess you've got a point, but I'm not gonna scold the kid for looking out for ol' uncle Formaggio." The ginger conceded with a shrug. "I just wish he'd brought an umbrella too, sucks having to trek up a mountain in the rain." He lifted his free hand to shield his eyes.

"The rain?" Illuso practically whispered the words as he looked toward the canopy.

"Alright, alright." Narancia lifted a hand to the radar hovering in front of his eye. "I'll widen Aerosmith's scope a bit, but I'm still gonna tell you this story about a stupid thug I beat up for interrupting a fashion show Buccellati dragged us to."

"There was no thug who ruined that fashion show, you picked a fight because you were bored!" Mista punched Narancia lightly on the shoulder.

"Can you blame the kid though?" Formaggio chuckled from the other side of the mirror. "That sounds so damn dull! I woulda gone crazy too."

"The rain?" Illuso stopped and looked around. Mista and Narancia were so caught up in their banter that they nearly ran into the black-haired assassin. Illuso was looking left and right, a frown growing on his face.

"Huh?" Formaggio stopped as well, barely catching their halt from his vantage point. "Is something wrong, Illuso?"

"You said it's raining." Illuso whipped around to face the mirror through which Formaggio stood. Sure enough, he could see drops of water hitting his comrade's head.

Illuso fervently turned back toward the world created by his stand. It should have been a perfect reflection, and yet -

"It's not raining, Formaggio."

"What do you mean?" The ginger gave a puzzled expression. He could hear drops hitting the leaves above him and feel the water as it slid down his face.

"Who cares about the rain," Narancia interrupted, his tone suddenly growing anxious as he tightly gripped his stand's radar. "There's something coming towards us!"

* * *

Light droplets pattered against the side of the dilapidated shack. A man stood outside the splintered door with only a tattered umbrella to shield him. A small black bird was perched at the very tip of the umbrella. It didn't seem to mind the rain - or rather, it didn't seem to notice the drops that hit it at all.

"Planning on going out now, Angela?" Kocaqi's words were as gentle as the tapping of rain on the soft earth. "Your Night Bird Flying should be fairly safe, but still do take care. I'll keep an eye on you too - my rain has covered the whole island by now."

"There's no need for her to send her stand out." A deeper voice responded to the old man's detached words from within the building. "I'll go instead. Nothing will get past me."

"No, no, that's no good." The elder waved his hand. "You shouldn't expend extra energy, Volpe. This situation is already under control. Angelica and I are more than enough to wipe out any stragglers." The allies he'd sent out earlier had yet to return, but Kocaqi didn't doubt their competence.

Passione had never seen a real rebellion before. Even the smallest whispers of such things were crushed immediately with brutal force. What was going on now was simply the result of luck, Kocaqi thought. Giving stands indiscriminately to low-level thugs was bound to cause this sort of situation from time to time.

"You be careful too." Volpe kept his words brief. This mission had been a direct order from the Don of Passione. There was no way for them to refuse.

Still, it was completely outside of their assigned role. They ran Passione's drug business - in no way were they meant to be bodyguards. The odd situation and loss of the Don's true guard squad meant that they had no choice but to take on the role when commanded.

Generally, their alliance was much looser - both sides recognized each other's power, and similar goals allowed for a mutually beneficial business relationship. All the Narcotics squad needed to do was use Volpe's Manic Depression to provide the mafia with drugs and they could enjoy the benefits of being high-ranking gangsters while doing little actual work. The freedom they had was a major draw. They were generally unshackled, free to float wherever and do anything without hindrance.

Those benefits would, of course, disappear if someone were to uncover the boss's identity, so it followed that despite the drag of the assignment, it was one that needed to be carried out. This kid - the underboss - was without a doubt the best shot anyone had at getting to the don themself. Doppio has disappeared into the bunker below the shack not long after he'd arrived. That was for the best - even if something happened out here, he'd still be safe.

Volpe eyed the man inspecting his nails in the corner. He knew about Cioccolata. He knew things that would be more than enough to make most people vomit. Yet he didn't necessarily mind working on a team with the deranged doctor. As long as he listened to orders and didn't go crazy with his stand, Cioccolata's presence was of little concern to him.

As if on cue, the man turned from his nails and centered his attention on Angelica.

Volpe had spoken too soon. He did have one concern.

"There's no need to worry about being precise." Kocaqi's voice dragged Volpe's stare to the door. The old man had returned to addressing the girl who lay curled on the ground. "You can use your ability all you like, and I'll lock it in place as I see fit." The little black bird flew off into the woods. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can go home."

The rainfall only grew heavier as the bird weaved and dipped through the air. Though it's movements were erratic, it would inevitably find it's targets and release horror upon them.


End file.
